In life with COPD, I’m blessed with a good and faithful friend
Mush understands how I'm feeling in a way that astonishes me
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Some mornings, before the world has fully awoken, I sit on my back deck in an old rocking chair and sip what I call my magic coffee. The mountains behind my house are still holding on to the last threads of night, and the air carries that soft hush that feels like a prayer.
My dog, Mush, settles beside me, her golden fur catching the first hints of daylight. She doesn’t crowd me. She simply sits, steady and warm, as if she knows these quiet minutes are how I gather myself for the day ahead — especially now, as I’m living with chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD).
COPD changes the way a person moves through the morning. Breath can come ragged and uneven, like trying to pull air through a narrow straw. Some days my chest feels tight before I’ve even stood up.
Mush seems to understand this in a way that still astonishes me. She is my mostly golden retriever rescue, though “rescue” hardly captures the truth of her story. She came to me carrying the kind of shadows that only cruelty can carve into a creature. There were moments early on when she flinched at movements that shouldn’t frighten a dog, moments when her eyes told me more about her past than any words ever could. But time, patience, and gentleness have a way of softening even the deepest scars. Now, very little of that old fear remains. What’s left is loyalty — fierce, unwavering, and tender in ways that feel like grace.
‘You’re not alone’
Every morning she greets me with a smile that stretches across her whole face and a tail thumping against the deck like a drumbeat of joy. I tell her, “Hello, beautiful girl,” and she beams as if she’s been waiting all night to hear it. On the mornings when COPD makes movement slow and breath stubborn, she knows. She doesn’t bark her usual “woof” for breakfast or trot around expecting her treat. She simply lies there, smiling and wagging her tail, offering comfort without asking for anything in return. It’s her way of saying, “I’m here. You’re not alone in this.”
When I’m almost finished with my coffee, she performs her favorite ritual. She rises, pads forward, and lowers herself right in front of me, belly exposed to the morning air. It’s an invitation — not just for a belly rub, but for connection. She waits until I’m ready, until I’ve had my moment of stillness, and then she asks for her own. There’s something healing in that exchange, something steadying. It reminds me that companionship doesn’t always need words; sometimes it’s found in the simple act of showing up for each other.
She also seems to sense the days when COPD gives me a little more room to breathe, when the air moves more easily, and the body feels lighter. On those mornings, she trots over with one of her toys — a worn-out ball or a stuffed animal missing an ear — and nudges me to play. Not because she needs entertainment, but because she knows I do. She reads me the way mountain folks read weather: by the feel of the air, the shift in the wind, the way the light lands on the ridge.
When I come home after being gone, she must smell me, inspect me, make sure I’m whole. It’s her version of a hug — a sensory embrace that says, “You’re back. I’ve been waiting. Let me make sure you’re all right.” Living alone with COPD, I’ve come to understand how much that kind of presence matters. Mush wards off the loneliness that might otherwise settle in the corners of my house. She fills the space with her gentle watchfulness, her joy, her quiet devotion.
I often think about how blessed I am to have her. Blessed, and sometimes unworthy. She is an incredible animal — not because she’s perfect, but because she loves with a depth that feels almost sacred. She has taken her broken past and turned it into a kind of wisdom, a knowing that allows her to sense what I need before I can say it.
As I sit on the deck with my magic coffee and Mush by my side, I realize that blessings don’t always come in grand gestures. Sometimes they come in the form of a dog who learned to trust again, a tail thumping on the boards, a soft smile at dawn, and a belly offered in pure, uncomplicated faith. Mush is my companion, my comfort, my guardian, and my friend. And in the quiet of the morning, with the mountains watching over us both, I know just how richly blessed I am — even, and maybe especially, on the hardest COPD days.
Note: COPD News Today is strictly a news and information website about the disease. It does not provide medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. This content is not intended to be a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always consult your physician or other qualified healthcare provider with any questions you may have regarding a medical condition. Never disregard professional medical advice or delay in seeking it because of something you have read on this website. The opinions expressed in this column are not those of COPD News Today or its parent company, Bionews, and are intended to spark discussion about issues about chronic obstructive pulmonary disease.
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