From the vantage point of my dog-dented couch, where fur flies and life lessons simmer, I’ve come to realize that my middle dog might be the philosopher of the pack. While some chase tails, he chases inner peace. And by that, I mean he has fully subscribed to the idea that sometimes, the juice just isn’t worth the squeeze.

Let me explain.

Every time I step into the kitchen, my other two dogs leap into high-alert snack mode. They follow me like culinary shadows, eyes laser-focused on my hands as if I’m about to drop a filet mignon. They weave between my feet, sit with theatrical patience, and leap at the faintest sign of gravity working in their favor. A rogue carrot? A falling cracker crumb? A slice of hope! They are the Crumb Chasers. The Snack Opportunists. The Kitchen Cultists.

And then there’s Middle Dog.

Middle Dog watches the scene unfold from his throne on the couch. He lifts an eyebrow (yes, dogs can judge you with eyebrows), shifts to his cooler side, and snuggles deeper into the cushions. While the other two hustle and pace in pursuit of the occasional treat, Middle Dog has made an executive decision: it’s just not worth it.

A breadcrumb? Please. He’s seen bread. He knows better.

Why waste perfectly good napping time to compete for microscopic food shrapnel that may never fall?

Middle Dog has mastered the art of cost-benefit analysis, dog-style. He’s the chill realist in a world of anxious nibblers. And honestly? I envy him. Because isn’t that what we humans do all the time? We run around chasing crumbs, metaphorical ones. Hustling for slivers of attention, recognition, validation, that next dopamine drop. We wear ourselves out standing in kitchens of life, hoping something falls our way.

But maybe, maybe, we need to embrace our inner Middle Dog. Find the couch. Choose rest over noise. Decide that the crumb parade can pass us by without FOMO. Because sometimes, the effort simply isn’t worth the reward. And that’s not laziness, that’s wisdom with a side of nap.

So today, I raise my coffee cup to my couch-bound philosopher. He may not have gotten the snack, but he got something better: peace, a nap, and the quiet confidence of knowing his worth is not measured in crumbs.

Now if only I could learn to say “no” to the metaphorical kitchen and yes to the nap.