"Lassies and the Lone Pine" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
Liam was ten years old the winter Lassie came into his life.
She was one of a litter at a neighboring farm—tumble-soft puppies with bright eyes and unsteady paws—but when she looked at him, she stayed looking. That was how he knew. He didn’t understand then how rare it was to be chosen twice in one moment, but later he would.
She was a border collie mix—quick of mind, quicker of heart. His imagination named her Lassie, after the dog on television who always knew the way home, always arrived in time. Somehow, the name fit.
They grew up together.
In December, the woods belonged to them. Snow softened the world, wrapped sound in cotton, and turned every path into a promise. Lassie ran ahead, then back, then ahead again—never leaving him, only orbiting him, as if her joy needed motion. When Liam slowed, she slowed. When he stopped, she returned to his side and waited.
There was a lone white pine on the lake shore—tall, stately, older than memory. Liam climbed it often, finding a perch where the world made sense. Childhood questions. Teenage longings. College dreams not yet spoken aloud. From that height, everything felt possible.
Below, Lassie waited.
Sometimes she sat. Sometimes she slept. Always she watched.
At the end of every school day—grade school, junior high, high school—she was there at the end of the driveway. Snowbanked December afternoons, boots wet and mittens stiff, the sky already dimming—there she was, joy made visible. No matter what the day had been, it ended well.
When Liam left for college, Lassie learned a new kind of waiting. And when he returned—weekends, holidays, Christmas—she was the first to greet him, as if time had simply paused until he came home again.
He told her everything.
The mysteries. The fears. The hopes he didn’t yet know how to name. When he was hurt, she leaned closer. When he was happy, she danced it with him. She never answered in words, but she understood in ways words never could.
Years later, she was older. Her body slower. Her eyes still knowing.
One afternoon, they sat together on the front steps of his parents’ house. Lassie leaned into him, her warmth familiar, necessary. She made sounds he had never heard before—low, tender, almost conversational. Liam listened. And in that moment, he understood that she was speaking too. Sharing her own hopes, her own quiet courage. Letting him know the end was near.
She passed days later, resting in the shade of the beech tree in the front yard, the sun warm, his parents with her.
Liam was not.
It is a regret that still visits him softly.
But if love counts for anything—and it does—then Lassie never waited alone.
* * * * * * * * * *
Lassie is with me this morning.
She lies at my feet as I sip my coffee, as real as breath—until I glance down and remember that it is memory that rests there now. But memory, I’ve learned, has weight. It warms. It stays.
Roberto Alagna’s tenor lifts Noël into the wee cottage, filling the room with light the sun has not yet offered. Outside, darkness presses against the windows. Some are troubled by the dark.
I am not.
I find it peaceful.
I think of a quote I read recently—about perspective. About how life shifts depending on where you stand. How comparison steals joy. How kindness and love are the only things that truly hold their value.
Lassie understood this without language.
To her, I was everything. Not measured. Not compared. Just loved.
I pause. My coffee mug is empty.
What should I do?
I think I will refill it.
And this is how I am starting my day--
with gratitude,
with memory,
with love that still waits patiently at my side,
ready to walk the woods once more.
* * * * * * * * * *
“Some souls walk beside us for a lifetime.
Others teach us how to walk alone--
and still feel loved.”
~Wylddane
She was one of a litter at a neighboring farm—tumble-soft puppies with bright eyes and unsteady paws—but when she looked at him, she stayed looking. That was how he knew. He didn’t understand then how rare it was to be chosen twice in one moment, but later he would.
She was a border collie mix—quick of mind, quicker of heart. His imagination named her Lassie, after the dog on television who always knew the way home, always arrived in time. Somehow, the name fit.
They grew up together.
In December, the woods belonged to them. Snow softened the world, wrapped sound in cotton, and turned every path into a promise. Lassie ran ahead, then back, then ahead again—never leaving him, only orbiting him, as if her joy needed motion. When Liam slowed, she slowed. When he stopped, she returned to his side and waited.
There was a lone white pine on the lake shore—tall, stately, older than memory. Liam climbed it often, finding a perch where the world made sense. Childhood questions. Teenage longings. College dreams not yet spoken aloud. From that height, everything felt possible.
Below, Lassie waited.
Sometimes she sat. Sometimes she slept. Always she watched.
At the end of every school day—grade school, junior high, high school—she was there at the end of the driveway. Snowbanked December afternoons, boots wet and mittens stiff, the sky already dimming—there she was, joy made visible. No matter what the day had been, it ended well.
When Liam left for college, Lassie learned a new kind of waiting. And when he returned—weekends, holidays, Christmas—she was the first to greet him, as if time had simply paused until he came home again.
He told her everything.
The mysteries. The fears. The hopes he didn’t yet know how to name. When he was hurt, she leaned closer. When he was happy, she danced it with him. She never answered in words, but she understood in ways words never could.
Years later, she was older. Her body slower. Her eyes still knowing.
One afternoon, they sat together on the front steps of his parents’ house. Lassie leaned into him, her warmth familiar, necessary. She made sounds he had never heard before—low, tender, almost conversational. Liam listened. And in that moment, he understood that she was speaking too. Sharing her own hopes, her own quiet courage. Letting him know the end was near.
She passed days later, resting in the shade of the beech tree in the front yard, the sun warm, his parents with her.
Liam was not.
It is a regret that still visits him softly.
But if love counts for anything—and it does—then Lassie never waited alone.
* * * * * * * * * *
Lassie is with me this morning.
She lies at my feet as I sip my coffee, as real as breath—until I glance down and remember that it is memory that rests there now. But memory, I’ve learned, has weight. It warms. It stays.
Roberto Alagna’s tenor lifts Noël into the wee cottage, filling the room with light the sun has not yet offered. Outside, darkness presses against the windows. Some are troubled by the dark.
I am not.
I find it peaceful.
I think of a quote I read recently—about perspective. About how life shifts depending on where you stand. How comparison steals joy. How kindness and love are the only things that truly hold their value.
Lassie understood this without language.
To her, I was everything. Not measured. Not compared. Just loved.
I pause. My coffee mug is empty.
What should I do?
I think I will refill it.
And this is how I am starting my day--
with gratitude,
with memory,
with love that still waits patiently at my side,
ready to walk the woods once more.
* * * * * * * * * *
“Some souls walk beside us for a lifetime.
Others teach us how to walk alone--
and still feel loved.”
~Wylddane
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