Every morning, I find a polar bear of a dog lying at the entrance to my house. We were strangers once. He used to follow behind while his alpha, Josh, led Emily and I around the property, like a mafia heavy protecting his don from a respectful distance while he deals with dangerous rivals.

Now, Buddy guards my house. If he finds me sitting down to take a swig of water, he reassures me with a massive paw on my shoulder and an ear full of snout.

I consider this an official endorsement - we've become family in just two weeks. And I don't just mean that Buddy has extended the offer and I've joined his club. It's mutual. We both live and work here.

Buddy gallops from field to field, barking at enemies either imagined or visible to him only. He barks at seagulls flying a kilometer overheard, warning them away from landing in our turf. It's goofy, until you consider that our lone goose, Lucy, used to be one of a half dozen. That half dozen was attacked in the night by coyotes, and it was only Buddy's valiant charge that scared the coyotes away and saved Lucy's life. 

Buddy guards our door, and he doesn't take it lightly. We're family, for a time at least. I'm here, and Buddy is here, so we're in it together. We'll both hold our end of the bargain - eggs in his dish, no coyotes in my bedroom.