So the man turns around. He doesn’t ask for an exception. He doesn’t argue. He just says no thank you, and starts walking back down the long road with his dog beside him, giving up the one thing he thought he’d spent his whole life earning.

A while later he reaches a second gate. Simpler. No velvet rope, no guard checking a list. Someone waves them both through without a second thought — and it turns out this was heaven all along! The first gate was the final test.

This story is not really about heaven, it’s about character. And it neatly envelopes why we love dogs as much as we do.

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A dog doesn’t love you for your résumé. It doesn’t recalculate its loyalty when you’re having a bad year, or suffer a financial setback, or just suddenly reroute its affections toward someone more convenient. It just stays and goes on loving.

That kind of loyalty is rare enough in people, but it is the default for dogs.💗

Dogs don’t ask us to be impressive. They ask us to be worth staying for — whether we’ve earned it that day or not.

So when the man in the story turns down heaven rather than abandon his dog, the story isn’t really testing whether he loves dogs or the value of dogs. It’s actually testing whether he’s the kind of person who leaves a true and trusting soul behind when it matters most. Whether loyalty is a bond for him, or a shallow commitment that evaporates the moment it costs something.

He wasn’t just rewarded for choosing the dog. He was revealed by it.

I think about this with Mocca on the days I perhaps don’t deserve the full force of her high regard: when the walk is late, or dinner is even later, or I’ve simply been distracted and short with her for no reason she knows about. But she doesn’t keep a ledger. She’s at the door either way, unbothered, glad to see whichever version of me finally shows up. It isn’t loyalty as a transaction. It’s just who she is, on the good days and the ones I get things wrong.

I write dogs into my stories so often because they embody the kind of loyalty we hope we’re capable of. Their steadfast qualities are a central thread running through everything I put into The Goodest Boy — ten stories, ten dogs, all of them versions of the same quiet theme: that canine love for people which asks nothing and gives all.

If that’s the kind of story you would enjoy, The Goodest Boy, Volume 2 is out now at https://a.co/d/0hJlL3bv and in paperback https://a.co/d/0dHSZ7JY.

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Volume 1 is available here!

It’s proper summer again here in Norway (which doesn’t prevent the occasional hailstorm from making a guest appearance) and Mocca and I are back on the trails and hills of the neighbourhood. Swimming season is officially in swing!

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In between trips down to the local beaches so madam can swim to her heart’s content, I turn up here every day to post and chat about dogs and all their ways. And especially about how they’re such an amazing part of our lives. I spend a significant portion of my life writing about many things, but I love writing about dogs most of all.

So I’m thrilled to share that the second volume of The Goodest Boy is now available for pre-order. Right here.

It took a bit longer to complete than I’d anticipated, but prepare to meet ten more wonderful dogs in what I hope are heartwarming stories that celebrate our best friends. 🐾 If my notes and the videos I post resonate with you, you will probably like this collection of short stories about our best friend.

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And thanks, as always, for turning up on my Substack to laugh, smile, and share the doggy joy with me. It means more than you know. It makes my days as an independent author a lot more fun and connected. Thank you for your support!

I.L. Williams

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Spring arrived a few days ago, all at once.

The morning: snow. Mocca immersed close to the fireplace, nearly indistinguishable from the sheepskin cushions. Looking for all the world like a small, shaggy bear who had absolutely no intention of moving.

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By afternoon, the snow was gone. The sun came out over the water. And Mocca was newly clipped and suddenly…

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The Dog Who Knew a Thing or Two is the story of Grace and Florence, two sisters sharing a childhood home and a very long history of getting on each other’s nerves. But one day, a dog named Winston shows up in their yard with the quiet patience of someone who knows exactly where he belongs.

This story is part of The Goodest Boy Volume 2, coming soon. I’m showing it to paid subscribers ahead of publication. It is still a draft, so apologies for any imperfections. And thank you for your generous support! I really appreciate your keeping this substack going.

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The Dog Who Knew A Thing Or Two

The argument started, as they always did, over breakfast.

“Mother’s original china was pink roses,” Grace said, spreading marmalade on her toast with the precision of someone who’d spent forty-seven years of marriage making everything just so.

“Pink peonies,” Florence countered, not looking up from her crossword. At seventy-four, she still wore her silver hair in the same sleek bob she’d maintained since she was twenty, and still applied lipstick before coming downstairs each morning. “I should know. I helped her pick out that set at Marshall Field’s in 1964.”

“You were twelve. What would you know about china patterns?”

“More than you, apparently.” Florence’s pen tapped against the newspaper. “You were too busy playing house with your dolls to pay attention to real dishes.”

Grace’s jaw tightened. Six months of living together in their childhood home had worn their patience tissue-thin. Florence had lived in the house for years, while Grace had moved in shortly after becoming a widow. The house on Dumont Street that had seemed so spacious when they were girls now felt cramped with two lifetimes of accumulated grievances.

“At least I knew how to take care of a home,” Grace muttered, making an unveiled reference to her career as a housewife.

“And I knew how to take care of myself,” Florence countered, proud of the clothing shop she’d started and run for decades.

The familiar poison settled between them like morning fog. Grace retreated to washing dishes (her domain) while Florence claimed the sunroom for her daily ritual of coffee and brooding over the world at large. The house divided itself around their separate silences.

It was Grace who first spotted the dog through the kitchen window. A medium-sized dog of questionable heritage, sitting perfectly upright beside their mailbox like he was waiting for an appointment. His coat was the color of autumn leaves, golden brown with darker patches around his ears and a white blaze down his chest. He had the kind of face that looked almost human in its expressiveness, with dark eyes that seemed knowing or wise.

“There’s a dog in our yard,” Grace called out.

“What?” Florence appeared in the kitchen doorway, reading glasses still perched on her nose.

“A dog. By the mailbox.”

They stood side by side at the window, united for the first time in months by shared curiosity. The dog remained motionless, as if he knew he was being observed and was putting on his best behaviour.

“Probably belongs to someone,” Florence said, but her voice lacked conviction.

“I don’t think its wearing a collar.”

“Could be a stray.”

“Or lost.”

They watched him for another moment. Then, as if sensing their attention, the dog turned his head toward the window and tilted it in that universal canine gesture of polite inquiry. The movement was so dignified and patient that Grace felt instantly charmed.

“He looks hungry,” she said.

“Don’t even think about it, Gracie.” Florence used the childhood nickname without thinking. “You know nothing about dogs.”

“Neither do you.”

“Exactly my point.”

But when Grace went out to collect the mail an hour later, the dog was still there. Up close, she could see he was clean despite his apparent homelessness, his coat healthy and eyes bright. He had the bearing of a dog who’d been loved once, who remembered what it felt like to belong somewhere.

“Hello there,” she said softly.

The dog’s tail moved once, a careful wag that seemed to ask: Are you someone I can trust?

Grace found herself reaching into her pocket for the dinner roll she’d saved from last night’s meal. She’d brought it with her just in case. The dog took it with the gentle precision of a well-mannered child accepting a gift, chewing thoughtfully while maintaining eye contact.

“Grace Marie Henderson, what are you doing?” Florence’s voice carried from the front porch.

“Just… looking.”

“You’re feeding him. I can see you feeding him.”

“It’s just a roll.”

“One roll becomes two. Two becomes a bowl. A bowl becomes a bed. And before you know it, we’re running a kennel for strays.”

But Florence came down the front steps anyway, drawn despite herself. The dog watched her approach with the same patient curiosity he’d shown Grace. When she stopped a few feet away, he offered a single tail wag, as if to say: I see you, too.

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A note for my wonderful readers!

It’s happening!🤩

"Lost & Found" is now available for pre-order!🎉

For those of you who have followed Henrik and Axel from the very beginning, reading each chapter as it appeared, leaving comments and sending messages: this moment belongs to you as much as it does to me. Your responses shaped this story in ways you may no…

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A Motif as Old as Our Friendship with Dogs

Long before knights and armor, long before cathedrals or castles, our ancestors carved dogs onto cave walls beside human hunters. Fifteen thousand years ago (some evidence suggests even earlier), the wolf that chose us transformed into the dog that stayed. We gave them scraps and shelter, they gave us assistance in a harsh world and loyalty that transcended fear, hunger, and danger.

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That ancient pact never ended, and found its way into art.

In medieval tombs across Europe, stone effigies of lords and ladies so often have a small dog curled at their feet, a representation of fidelity that even death cannot break. Victorian painters like Rivière returned to this theme again and again because they knew their audience would feel it in their bones. We still do.

Why does this particular image of a grieving dog beside a fallen knight touch us so deeply? Because it mirrors a universal experience every dog owner knows:

Dogs love us better than we love them. They love us with their entire being, every single second they’re alive. They wait by the door for as long as it takes. They rest their head on our knee when we cry. They stand guard over our sick beds, our empty pillows. And in our final resting places in paintings like this one.

Their love isn’t complicated by ego or condition. It just is. Pure, steady, and eternal.

The Heartwarming Power of the Motif

Artists keep returning to the loyal dog at the deathbed because it reassures us of something so beautiful. Yes, the painting is sad, but it also captures a promise.

It’s the same promise you feel when your old dog still tries to follow you upstairs even though his hips hurt. It’s the same promise when your rescue dog, who once feared everything, finally falls asleep with his back against your leg. It’s the same promise dogs live every day: “I’m here. I love you. I won’t forget you.”

We may have started the partnership back in the caves, but dogs perfected it. We should never take for granted the four-legged souls who have chosen to love us even better than we know how to love them back.

Thank you for letting me share these stories with you. Your comments, your photos of your own faithful companions, and your open hearts make this little corner of the internet feel like a warm place.

**This is a reader-supported publication**

To receive new posts and support the work of celebrating dogs (their stories, their funny antics, and the richness they bring to our lives) consider becoming a paid subscriber. It truly keeps the stories coming. Thank you for being part of this journey. 🐾❤️

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ABOUT THE PAINTER:
Briton Rivière (often spelled Briton Riviere) was a prominent British painter (14 August 1840 – 20 April 1920) of Huguenot descent, born in London into a family of artists. His father, William Rivière, was also a painter and art educator.

He studied at Oxford University (graduating in 1866) and began exhibiting at the Royal Academy as early as 1858. While he produced works across genres—including classical, mythological, biblical, and genre scenes—he became especially renowned for his animal paintings, often depicting dogs, lions, deer, and other creatures with remarkable detail, emotion, and anthropomorphic qualities.

His breakthrough came around the late 1860s with sentimental and dramatic works like The Long Sleep (1869), showing a deceased man watched over by loyal dogs, and he continued exhibiting successfully at the Royal Academy throughout his career. Influenced by the Pre-Raphaelites in his early years, his style emphasized precise observation, rich colors, and narrative elements.

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This chapter has found its forever home!

Lost and Found is now complete and available on Amazon, and ready to read from the very first page to the last. It is currently an e-book, but will also soon be available as a paperback.

https://a.co/d/043NRk4g

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Mocca found the sun before I found my coffee. She always does. She has an instinct for exactly where the greatest concentration of warmth in the house will be. ☀️

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This chapter has found its forever home!

Lost and Found is now complete and available on Amazon, and ready to read from the very first page to the last. It is currently an e-book, but will also soon be available as a paperback.

https://a.co/d/043NRk4g

Read more

This chapter has found its forever home!

Lost and Found is now complete and available on Amazon, and ready to read from the very first page to the last. It is currently an e-book, but will also soon be available as a paperback.
https://a.co/d/043NRk4g

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The sun has been trying to break through since morning. Not quite managing it, but making everything silver and soft in the attempt. The snow is deep enough to swallow or dampen sounds. Even the trees look like they’re holding very still on purpose.

The Oslofjord in winter is its own kind of gift. A vast pewter shimmer between the trees. I never take it for granted because this peculiar, cold, luminous beauty belongs entirely to this season and no other. ❄️

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This chapter has found its forever home!

Lost and Found is now complete and available on Amazon, and ready to read from the very first page to the last. It is currently an e-book, but will also soon be available as a paperback.

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https://a.co/d/2IFhps1

Jack Bolton is a man in his mid-fifties who comes home to Moreton with nothing much left. No fanfare, no grand plans, just the quiet defeat of a life that didn’t turn out the way he’d hoped. Then two stray dogs show up and refuse to let him disappear into his loneliness.

This is a story about how small acts of kindness can rebuild a life, and how sometimes dogs find us exactly when we need them most.

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In Norway, this kind of cabin weekend is almost an additional common language that nearly every Norwegian speaks. Friends gathering. Wood fires. Long pauses. Time moving a little more slowly, as if the mountains themselves insist on it.

Outside, the snow keeps falling and reshaping everything. Trees bend under its weight. Roofs disappear. Paths soften. Even sound changes to make footsteps muted and the quiet almost loud.

Outside is the spectacular winterscape that invites you out for the fresh air and snow-covered everything

Inside, there’s warmth and quiet company. Coffee and cake. Looking out the window at the birds at the bird feeder for a long time. No one asks what we should do next.

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There’s a video going around that I can’t stop thinking about.

A couple takes their two dogs to the beach for the day. Normal afternoon, ordinary outing, the kind of thing you do a thousand times without anything remarkable happening. Except one of their dogs keeps going up to a stranger. A woman they’ve never met. But the dog won’t leave her alone. Sniffing her insistently, repeatedly, the way dogs do when they’ve detected something their humans can’t see.

The couple keeps apologizing. Sorry, so sorry, he’s not usually like this... But the woman (Katie) is understanding. They start talking. One thing leads to another, and the couple mentions that Lucy, the woman in the couple, desperately needs a kidney donor. They’ve been searching, hoping, running out of time the way people do when their bodies are failing them and the list is long and the odds are terrible.

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I made this little video from moments over the past days. Pictures of her at rest, the snow outside, our quiet neighborhood wrapped in white. It’s nothing grand. Just winter as it is here: slow, soft, and mostly spent indoors.

I hope it brings you a moment of stillness too.😊

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Just a quick, musical glimpse of my journey into town and into work. Peaceful, cold, and beautiful. Sharing these small Oslo moments with you. ❄️🌅

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Then tragedy strikes, and they are separated.

What follows is Storm’s quiet, stubborn refusal to let go. He never stops looking east, toward the place where he and Whisker once lived together. His loyalty endures and eventually his longing for home guides his steps.

The full read-aloud is ready for you now, so settle in with a cup of tea, perhaps with your own dog curled nearby, and listen to “East” in my voice.

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I’ve been thinking about trying something for a while now: reading some of my dog stories aloud (published and unpublished stories in-progress), just for my paid subscribers.

There’s something about hearing a story spoken that’s different from reading it on a page. More intimate, maybe. And since your support really helps me to keep writing these stories, it felt right to try sharing them with you this way.

Today, I’m reading the forward of my short story collection “The Goodest Boy”and the opening of the story called “East.” It’s about a prize-winning border collie and an old barn cat who become friends at the beginning of his life. When the farmer dies and the now prize-winning dog is taken to a new home, the cat is left behind. But the dog doesn’t forget his old home or his cherished old friend.

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