On my bad days, I’d love to throw half of Congress in jail to stew for a year or two. When my better angels surface, I’d love to send a bunch of Zinnia’s to Washington and soften some hard hearts.

Dog love is a powerful force; it can even conquer windbags and demagogues, given a chance.

People who pause to scratch the belly of a dog will shed their hatred quicker than a dog sheds hair.

When one of our Amish friends drove a horse into the backyard when we first met, the back door was not firmly closed. All three dogs, aroused by the presence of a horse in our yard, broke out of the door and went charge to Clipper, one of the Amish horses.

I was alarmed, one of them could have spooked or bitten the horse, and I went charging out after them. Fate ran right under Clipper’s leg to the pasture gate and didn’t seem to see him, or perhaps pretended that she didn’t.

Zinnia charged the horse, barking and circling the wagon but not directly engaging. Only Bud got in from Clipper and tried to back him out of the pasture and away from the farm. Clipper did not spook, but he did stomp the ground to warn Bud away, but Bud ignored him.

But does not retreat from a confrontation, from a chipmunk, not from a horse. He insisted Clipper get out of his yard.

Bud is convinced he’s a Tyrannosaurus Rex; he is fearless and will try to push any animal of any size around.

I got outside and in front of him before he got closer to Clipper and roared at him to get back into the house. Reluctantly, and with much noise and drama, he returned to the porch and was nearly bludgeoned back into the living room.

Bud has the body of a groundhog and the heart of a lion. He has good reason to protect us; he knows of the dangers and cruelty in the world. Inside of the house, he is a kitten. He wants nothing more than to curl up in a lap or next to someone sitting on the sofa.

He is in bliss having his ear or chin or back scratched. When I lie down to read or take a nap, Bud crawls between my ankles on the footstool and goes to sleep. He is often curled up on my shoulder or top of my chest when I wake up.

He is most often found curled up next to Maria; he manages to squeeze in the space between her and the armchair. She loves to have him there, the two of them a tableau of the healing and uplifting power of dog love.

But is very special. We have never regretted putting him on that truck from Arkansas to Brattleboro, Vt.