In truth, I'm not really a cat person. Seamus, the wonder dog

In the words of Michael Dirda: “In truth, I'm not really a cat person. Seamus, the wonder dog, still deeply mourned by all who knew him, was just about the only pet I've ever really loved.” At first, these words seem merely the confession of a man preferring dogs over cats. Yet beneath their simplicity lies a reflection on love, memory, and grief. For Dirda is not truly speaking of cats or dogs alone, but of the singular bonds that sometimes appear in life—rare, luminous connections that leave marks upon the soul long after the companion is gone.

The origin of this statement is not in philosophy but in the intimacy of lived experience. It tells us that though one may not be inclined toward affection for all creatures, there are exceptions so profound they shatter indifference. Seamus, the wonder dog, was such an exception. In that name—“wonder”—we hear both affection and awe, as if this animal embodied loyalty, warmth, and a companionship so strong that even those who were not his master still remember him in mourning. It is a reminder that true love, even for a pet, is not measured in quantity but in depth.

The ancients, too, knew of such bonds. Consider the story of Argos, the faithful dog of Odysseus. For twenty years, Argos waited for his master, growing old and weak, but never losing his devotion. When Odysseus at last returned in disguise, Argos alone recognized him, wagged his tail, and then, at peace, lay down and died. This tale, like Dirda’s memory of Seamus, speaks to the purity of a bond that transcends words and endures across years. For animals, unclouded by vanity or deceit, often reflect the truest form of loyalty.

Dirda’s confession also carries a note of grief. To say Seamus is “still deeply mourned by all who knew him” is to recognize that the life of one beloved creature can ripple outward, touching many hearts. It tells us that love, even when given to a dog, does not vanish with death—it lingers as memory, as longing, as a quiet ache. This grief is not weakness but testimony: sorrow proves that love was real, that it mattered. Just as great heroes are remembered by their deeds, so too can a humble companion be immortalized by the depth of mourning he leaves behind.

The deeper meaning of this quote is that love often comes unexpectedly. A man who is “not really a cat person” still found himself undone by the companionship of a dog. It reminds us not to close our hearts, for love may come where we least expect it. Perhaps you are indifferent to certain people, certain places, certain pursuits—but then one day something arrives, a person, an animal, a calling, that pierces through indifference and awakens a love fierce and unforgettable. That is the wonder Dirda describes, the wonder we must remain open to.

The lesson for us is clear: treasure the bonds that pierce through your indifference. If life has given you one Seamus, one Argos, one companion whose loyalty and presence shine brighter than all the rest, do not dismiss it as trivial because it is “only a pet” or “only a small thing.” Love is sacred wherever it blooms. And when death comes, as it must, mourn deeply—but also honor that love by carrying its lessons forward: loyalty, gentleness, and joy in companionship.

Thus, Michael Dirda’s words, though simple, are a teaching of the ancients: love is rare, grief is proof of its truth, and even the humblest companions can reveal to us the deepest wonders of the human heart. Let us therefore cherish those bonds, keep their memory alive, and live so that when we are remembered, it may be said of us as it was said of Seamus: that we were deeply loved, and deeply mourned.