A Big Little Life

had drifted, and not only returned me but also secured me there forever by virtue of a rigorous intellectual argument with myself that resulted in a new understanding of the wisdom of faith and the truth of life’s abiding mystery.
    Some dog, huh?
    Previously, in addition to books of more modest word counts, I had written two massive novels— Strangers and Dark Rivers of the Heart —which were well received, but in which it seems to me the struggle of the writer is sometimes glimpsed on the page. The first book I wrote while Trixie was with us, False Memory , turned out to be the longest book I had written to date, but tighter than the two aforementioned works. The novel is an allegory, andthough in the past I had introduced humor in a suspenseful story, I approached False Memory as a comic novel and a suspense novel in equal measure. The story concerns the problem of Evil. It recognizes the truth that evil acts are out of sync with the ordered nature of the world, and therefore are irrational, absurd. The absurdity of Evil and of those who serve it is the source of our greatest defense against darkness: laughter. The antagonist of False Memory is as unconsciously amusing as he is terrifying, and often during the writing of his scenes, I laughed out loud at his pretensions and his self-delusion.
    The new direction my work took with that book and all I have written since derived from four revelations:
    First, I arrived at the certainty that Trixie possessed a soul as real as mine. Intelligence signifies more than an ability to relate cause to effect and to solve problems, both of which she could do. The fact that the universe exists is the most astonishing thing of all, but the second greatest astonishment is the existence of creatures, whether human beings or dogs or others, that can reason and learn, that are not driven solely by instinct. Consciously and unconsciously, the intelligent being searches for meaning and seeks its purpose. This effort cannot be pointless, because Nature inspires it in us, and Nature is never wasteful. The universe is efficient: Matter becomes energy; energy becomes matter; one form of energy is converted into another; the balance is always changing, but the universe is a closed system from which no particleof matter or wave of energy is ever lost. Nature does not waste, and if intelligent beings by their very nature seek meaning, then there must be meaning to be found. By Trixie’s intelligence, by her sense of wonder, she revealed a seeking soul—and led me to a reconsideration not only of the mystery of life but of the mystery of my own soul and destiny.
    My second revelation was the recognition of the unblemished innocence of her soul compared to mine or to that of any human being. She didn’t need a new Ferrari or a week in Vegas to know joy. For her, bliss was a belly rub, a walk on a sunny day—or in the rain, for that matter—an extra cookie when it wasn’t expected, a cuddle, a kind word. She lived to love and to receive love, which is the condition of angels.
    Third, I understood that the joy arising from innocence, from harmony with nature and natural law, must be the most exhilarating feeling either dog or human could hope to experience. Dogs’ joy is directly related to the fact that they do not deceive, do not betray, and do not covet. Innocence is neither naive nor unhip; innocence is the condition of deepest bliss.
    Fourth, I came to realize that the flight from innocence so characteristic of our time is a leap into absurdity and insanity.
    If Gerda and I had decided to delay accepting a dog from CCI and later received another golden, instead of Trixie, or if we’d decided not ever to have a dog, I wonderwho I would be, these eleven years later. Whatever Dean Koontz I would be, I would not be the Dean Koontz I am now. Considering the potentially momentous nature of even the smallest decisions we make, we ought to be terrified and humbled, we ought to be filled with gratitude for every grace we receive.

XVI
time and memory
    EACH TIME I write about dogs in a novel or a work of nonfiction, I receive a few letters accusing me of anthropomorphizing them, of ascribing human attributes to mere animals.
    Some of my correspondents have an aversion to dogs, and they are annoyed to see one portrayed with what they deem is excess affection.
    Others write from a moral high ground, which they claim in the name of their religion. They are certain to a fault that God’s grace