It’s better to give than to receive.

I remember hearing that saying as a child and wondering what people were thinking. Had they not had the joy of birthday and Christmas presents? Had their parents not insisted, as my parents did, that my sister and I not forget our grandparents on their birthdays and at Christmas. While not said, the inference was obvious that we shouldn’t overlook gifts for them, too.

And that was tough. My parents, especially my mother, measured gifts by their originality and the thought that went into them. She loved being surprised, and the more personalized the gift, the more it meant to her. When everything aligned, it was a wonderful feeling and I had an appreciation of giving. But getting to that place was often agonizing, especially when time was running out. That’s when giving is difficult.

Of all things, a growl just after dawn on Sunday morning brought the memory of trying so hard to please and get the gift right. Hours earlier, at 3 a.m., Ollie’s pacing in and out of the bedroom and then up and down stairs woke us up.

“I wonder what he’s spotted,” I said, looking out at the moonlit yard. I expected to see the hunchbacked form of a raccoon or the fleeting shape of a cat. The yard seemed peaceful, and Ollie would be much more excited if he spotted an intruder, so there must be something else amiss.

Before turning on the TV to watch the Patriots, I’d taken him for his customary evening outing. After his early evening outing, he usually retires for the night and usually isn’t up until dawn.

Then a few stomach rumbles alerted me to what he needed. He pulled me over to his pen, where, with an embarrassed look (I could see his eyes in the moonlight), he did his business. Once back inside he went straight for “his couch” and fell asleep again in no time.

As a glow filled the sky, Carol was already up. So, I was curious what Ollie’s friendly morning growl was all about.

His usual morning ritual consists of wagging his tail in greeting followed by stretches, moaning yawns and a succession of heavy sneezes. He’s also known to lie on his back so we can stroke his spotted belly or present us his behind to be scratched. All of this lasts no more than two minutes, then he’s looking for breakfast.

This time, he growled again, looking me straight in the eyes. I got the message. He wasn’t just waking up. He was ready to play.

I knew what this meant. Twenty minutes is usually what it takes to wear him out with the game of pulling on one end of a short rope. The game has variations including throwing the rope – if you can get it free – down the stairs. Racing up and down stairs has its benefits. Even Ollie tires out. Another option is hiding the “pullie” and urging him to “go find it.” On those occasions his nose goes into overdrive. He’ll sniff under furniture, push his nose between pillows and check that you haven’t hidden the pullie by sitting on it.

I thought it was still too early for games, and I tried not to be lured in by his early morning excitement. But he persisted, pulling an especially chewed up piece of rope from his basket of toys, the one he loves. I feigned no interest. He brought me the pullie, shoving it in my direction. He shook his head, the rope flying from side to side.

It was then I realized this wasn’t an effort to get me to play, but maybe his way of giving me a gift of one of his most prized possessions.

I’m sure some would conclude I’m carrying this to extremes and that dogs are wonderful companions but they aren’t capable of conceptualizing bringing pleasure to beings other than themselves. Perhaps, but I know how my mother would have reacted. She would have treasured such a gift, knowing to give it back.