Count me among the 60 million.

That’s the estimate for the number of households in America with at least one dog.

Unabashedly, I am a dog lover.

And as often happens, my husband and I are hooked on a specific breed.

It was the Greyhound who captured our eye when Jacob was ten.  His afterschool caregiver shared her home with a quiet, almost shadow-like creature, a former racing Greyhound named Toujours.

Today, it’s Charley, a red brindle former racer, who shares our home.

I’ll do anything to be with, think about, or write about dogs.

So what’s that got to do with addiction?

Plenty.

Like the times Jacob left home for treatment.  His final, almost reverential act was to stretch out on the floor next to our pair of greyhounds – three creatures still and silent in a lanky embrace – before he left to test his new life.

Or years later when he returns home to visit, only to be stopped at the door by Charley, leaping with unbridled joy to behold this boy-man come home, her joy mimicking my own.

Or the numerous dogs, mostly misunderstood Pitbull mixes, sharing the recovery houses Jacob oversees in South Florida.  Dogs helping men and women find recovery, forcing responsibility for another life, and giving love without reservation.

Then there’s the new pup – Sounder – the shiny black lab who owns the hallways of Samaritan House, the men’s recovery house in Annapolis, Maryland where I am proud to volunteer on the board.  Playing at our feet during meetings, running circles in the yard, distracting us all with his silly soft romp, Sounder rules.

Dogs find their way into all sorts of homes, and often halfway houses.

Who knows, really, why recovery so often flourishes within these places.

But if there’s a Charley or a Sounder there, or any other soft-muzzled face with liquid eyes yearning for affection, I’m betting on the dog.