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Oh, sure, he's a goofy 95-pound German shepherd reject. And yep, someone dumped him near our mailbox probably because his ears don't stand erect like a shepherd's but flop like a retriever's. Yet Jake, our slobbering monster of a mutt, is one of the best dogs we've ever known simply because he loves so much.

Every morning he waits for us by the screen door, eyes looking in, expectant. If we try to sleep in on the weekend, he'll start groaning and whining about 7:30, wanting his morning dose of head rubbing. Our two other dogs might wander onto the porch after we've come out, but only Jake waits for us, prods us to wake.

He gets us to wake up in other ways, too, like to the movement of a deer as it slips into the woods a half-mile away. Or Jake will sniff out a huckleberry-hidden turtle that we would've walked by and then insist we feed him some of these sweet berries before the turtle eats them all. Once at the pond, he broke our reverie by pouncing and scaring out two otters. At first we thought they were muskrats, but these whiskered, sleek creatures kept swimming and diving with their long tails till finally my brain registered what they were. Then these rare visitors did a combination bark-hiss-spit at the swimming mutts, and we realized that we didn't need a canine-otter fight, so home we headed.

We often pretend Jake has a voice, deep and goofy like a cartoon character. "Come on, Jim!" Sarah will give words to his look. "Let's go for a walk now!" He might tilt his head as if to say, "Exactly. How'd you know?" And then charge us as if he's ready to run through us. Out in the field, his tail always wagging and ears as erect as they'll ever get, we hear him saying, "This is great, this is great, guys." After which he pounces onto some poor mole.

Jake can be fierce. He's killed his share of groundhogs and coons, muskrats and even a fox, his instincts overriding any of our screams for him to stop. But the fierceness wavers at the unknown. He might chase a coyote pup, but when the creature, a third his size, turns and starts barking and growling, our dog turns tail to find us. The small coyote will keep yipping from across the hollow as we head home, and Jake will look back, unsure but also keeping close.

The same with bears. Jake does his hackle-raising, all-out growling charge after a huge black shadow in the woods. But then five seconds later, his hackles still raised and his barks still loud, Jake returns to stand behind me. The bear doesn't run away -- it turns to chase off the dog ... and he leads him to me. Thankfully the bear disappears once it sees me shouting with arms raised.

Our two other dogs have learned to deal with his high energy. Little B, the alpha dog, weighs less than half of his burly frame, so she puts up with his tail flapping her nose, and snaps only occasionally to keep him in line. Jake's response? Just a pause, look away and then run some more to play with us. And forget about Little B.

With Becca, our shy, abuse-recovery dog, Jake has made her playful again. He'll get a ball or old shoe, one of his toys, and then prance in front of Becca with his "Look at me! I have it and you don't" attitude. She doesn't really care about the toy, but she does like to nip and run and chase, and if she gets cranking, she'll run circles around the yard with Jake on her tail trying to keep up, the shoe in his mouth slowing him down. And then Becca will collapse and roll on her back, and the big bruiser will stand over her and they'll play growl for a while until Becca runs again, or I call them in for supper.

He has his faults, this Jake we love. He'll scream with glee when he gets a ride in the pickup, his high-pitched yips right in our ears. Or if too eager for a morning walk, he'll jump up and nose our chests despite attempts to keep him down. He'll get underfoot wanting as much loving as he can slurp, making us trip and almost fall on his big paws. And he always wants to rub his huge blond head against legs, somehow communicating how much he loves us by wiping his gobs of saliva on our clean dress clothes.

That's just his desire to be near, to touch. Even now as I write this while sitting in a rocking chair, he lies not at my feet, but on one while the other rubs his back. Soon he'll roll over so that I can rub his belly. And then he'll be dreaming, his tail thumping the floor, paws twitching, muffled yips blowing out his jowls. Even in his sleep, Jake pulls us along in his love for this bunny-scented, berry-luscious, beautiful world.

Jim Minick, author of "Her Secret Song" and "Burning Heaven," lives in Wythe County and teaches at Radford University.