Marla Kay Houghteling’s story is the first chosen from reader responses to Jim Hough’s call for columns to print when he’s on vacation. She lives in Harbor Springs and is a member of Great Lakes Energy Cooperative.

When my friend Chris died, my husband and I adopted her 12-year-old Sheltie. We have a 5-year-old Lab mix and were settled into a routine. The Sheltie changed all that.

He peed all over the house, often after he’d just returned from outside. All night he paced, his toenails clicking out the hours on the wood floors. We kept our bedroom door closed because we wanted him to sleep on his bed, but he was determined to be in the bedroom. In the morning, we’d find him curled against the door as we stumbled out for coffee.

He played aggressively with our Lab, and to her credit, she let him herd her, snapping at her sides and face. He ran over to the neighbor’s yard as often as he could, lured by the siren call of their female Sheltie. And he barked, at nearly every noise, or imagined noise.

I attributed much of his behavior to grieving. When the ambulance came for Chris at her home, Lucky ran off. He was recovered and went to live with one of Chris’ daughters while Chris remained in the hospital. He never saw his mistress again.

The crisis occurred in early July. My husband reached for Lucky’s collar to take him out of the bedroom for the umpteenth time. Lucky bit him on the middle finger. We cleaned the break in the skin and bandaged it. Two nights later my husband’s hand swelled to resemble a red boxing glove, and the pain was intense. Heading home at 1 a.m. from the emergency room, I asked my husband if I should look for another home for Lucky. Perhaps he was feeling mellow from the IV full of antibiotics and pain medication, but to my surprise he said, “No.” We would keep Lucky. I was relieved that I could honor Chris by taking care of her beloved Sheltie (the one she let sleep with her and sit on her lap).

And after that, things improved. The peeing in the house stopped entirely; he stopped running towards the neighbors when we yelled a sharp, “hey.” Our routine became familiar, and he relaxed. (Treatment from the vet for a bad tooth and ear infections improved his disposition.) Now he sleeps most nights. When he comes into the bedroom, it’s usually to check up on us. The bedroom isn’t completely forbidden territory anymore. He and the Lab switch dog beds during the night, or sometimes decide to share the big plaid one.

Lucky lived in town and took short walks on a leash on sidewalks. Living with us, he’s forced to be a country dog. He walks the trails throughout the acres of woods that surround our home. He comes home loaded with burrs, pickers, grasses and twigs. While the Lab dashes through the underbrush in pursuit of anything that moves or makes a squeak, Lucky is content to stick to the path. Other animals seem to hold no interest when he is on his walk.

Winter has brought new obstacles. Shelties are not designed for navigating deep snow. After the last blizzard we headed for the woods on snowshoes. The Lab left us to head under the pines in bounding leaps. Lucky trudged along in the imprints made by our snowshoes. Soon he was encased in packed snow, on his stomach, paws and chest. He eventually slowed to a crawl, and I picked him up for the rest of the walk. We’ve always had an aversion to “doggy clothes,” but we’ve been scanning catalogs for suitable outerwear for him.

Lucky is not allowed upstairs, where I sometimes work on my laptop. The floor is carpeted and none of our dogs, previous pets included, have been allowed up there. We tried keeping him out of my husband’s downstairs study, but finally acquiesced. He lies beside the computer’s hard drive, soothed by the warmth and the hum. I remember when Chris was at the computer working on her poetry, Lucky curled up on a rug next to her hard drive.

So, dog and humans are coexisting by making adjustments. Lucky still barks more than we’d like, patrolling the house, checking the doors and windows. But he sticks to the dog bed most nights and adheres to a regular elimination schedule—outdoors. What more could we ask for?