Animals

My Dad's seeing-eye dog, a golden retriever named Nashua, draws a lot of attention. People flock to pet him, kneel down and mumble dog talk. Each time, my Dad gently yet firmly asks them to step back.

Nashua doesn't play when he works.

When in harness, seeing-eye dogs work. They concentrate, remain riveted to their owner and show no more than a passing interest in anyone else.

I marvel at the way Nashua negotiates his way around obstacles, stops at any change of height in his path and always remembers where we last parked the car. It doesn't matter if other dogs bark, charge across the yard or come up to sniff his snout. He ignores all of it. I've watched him glance at a cat and not even flinch.

When he works, he works.

Out of the harness, Nashua frolics about with boundless energy, jumps in the air for no reason, fetches tennis balls for hours and rolls blissfully in the mud. He chases squirrels, chews up sticks and laps the yard as fast as his paws can churn.

When he plays, he plays.

We can learn a lot from Nashua. Most of us lack focus.

At work, we think about what to do after hours.

At home, we think about work.

Work and play become jumbled and inter-mingled into a confusing ball of mess.

Your family loves you but they really don't care how brutal a day you had. Their day felt just as tough to them. When you come home, they want YOUÐ'--not half of you, part of you or whatever small sliver you can carve for them from your distractions.

I'm terrible in this department. I constantly fret about columns or finances, the fact that a book layout didn't look right or any number of details that should rest in peace in my office.

My kids neither understand nor dispense any sympathy. They want to climb on my shoulders, present a new drawing, go swimming and negotiate for cookies all at the same time.

I'm their Dad. When I come home, they expect me to show up, as does Alison and rightly so. We wear many hats in this worldÐ'--all of them important. Our loved ones deserve to top the list.

Train