Returning to America

Thoughts on Independence Day

This piece was written several years ago and became part of my memoir, Walks with Sam, about a series of hikes with my dog that permitted new considerations of the world. I believe this essay still holds up, remains relevant, and continues to evoke questions about what it is today to be an American. Considering the Fourth of July, 2025 and the current state of America, our culture, and our nation, I thought this essay might be worth sharing once again. It’s become a traditional post on Independence Day.

It is early morning on the Fourth of July and Sam is wearing a red, white, and blue scarf, a cloth bandana with images of nautical flags tied around her neck. It’s a touch of the holiday from the groomer. I never liked those silly scarves, but it’s Independence Day, so I tolerate it. Still, it feels like forced patriotism.

We walk a quiet neighborhood. No one is outside in the first couple of blocks. But signs of The Fourth are everywhere—red, white, and blue door ribbons at a front entrance to one home, small American flags line the walkway of another, a child’s bike rests in a yard with the spokes of its wheels laced with crepe paper in American colors. One would sense a bit of pride running through these streets, pride in country, pride in the American way (whatever that is) despite the rat’s nest we are in—trade wars with China, a war of words with North Korea, deep questions about immigration, and a president with zero class, no empathy, and questionable ethics.

“What is it we are celebrating here, Sam?” I ask.

Sam sniffs some day lilies along the parkway on the street near the railroad tracks.

We head east and the neighborhood begins to come alive—a runner, a couple of early dog walkers, and several adults on bikes, one after another. This is not the usual morning crowd; these are the holiday people, the ones taking advantage of the day off to head outdoors before breakfast, before firecrackers snap, charcoal burns, and the town’s parade steps off.

I stop at the corner and look at Sam. That stupid scarf. I untie it, remove it, and tuck it in my pocket. Sam does not protest.

It’s an odd relationship I have with this holiday. I love my country, even though I’m not sure what that really means. I believe patriotism also means pointing out what needs work, what needs attention, what we do wrong and maybe how to change it. I scowl at nationalism, the sightless admiration of a country just because it’s your country. I was never in the military. Missed the mandatory draft. Wouldn’t have gone to Vietnam if called on, instead I would have left on a bus to Montreal. And my father, who was a veteran of the Korean War, told me he would have bought the ticket. My relationship with America is complicated.

“Sam,” I think aloud, “would you fight for your country?”

Dogs have a long history of being in warfare. In ancient times, dogs were scouts. The Egyptians, Greeks, and Persians used them as sentries and patrols. George Washington, who would later be named the Commander and Chief of the Continental Army, brought his favorite dog—Sweet Lips—with him when he attended the First Continental Congress in 1774. It makes sense. Dogs are so keenly loyal, a trait necessary for military service. The animals in the pack survive because members of the group depend on each other, not unlike a military unit, a squadron, a platoon.

Still, despite my complex feelings about this country, its military hubris and its tendency to forget history, it is hard on this day not to feel something good about America. It remains a shining light for many, despite its imperfections. After all, the day is not meant to be about military service but rather a celebration of an incredible idea—American democracy, even if it is flawed, flawed when the Founding Fathers gathered in Philadelphia and flawed today. Flawed like all of us, like our heroes, our families, our lovers, our friends, and even our dogs. And, on the matter of whether Sam would fight for the country—she wouldn’t, unless I trained her to do so. Like humans, dogs are not natural fighters. Their instinct, like ours is to want to bond. If a dog is a fighter, it’s been conditioned to be that way by a human being, who, for whatever reason, believes the animal must be aggressive, combative. Dogs, like us, don’t want to fight. They want to love and be loved. I like to think that instinct is more linked to the idea of America than warfare. Even though we fought bloody battles for our independence, what makes us a virtuous country is our ability to want to bond, to be empathetic. America is like Sam. It wants to love and be loved, and to accomplish this, it doesn’t need to blindly wave its flag or wear a silly red, white, and blue scarf around the necks of its dogs.

Walking north now toward home, I see a small dog, a terrier of some type, sniffing around a garage door. It is untethered, free and roaming. The dog sees us, Sam and me, and scampers closer. Sam notices and pulls on her leash. She does not bark or growl, instead there is simple interest. Who is this dog? We slow down and the dog follows, its tiny tail raised and twitching.

“Hello,” I say. The dog ignores my greeting and rushes to Sam. The two dogs sniff each other.

And from over my shoulder I hear, “Can you grab him?”

A woman walks barefoot from two houses south, carrying a small leash.

“He got out the back door,” she says.

I reach to corral the dog, but it darts into a yard a few feet away. Sam pulls toward it and blocks the dog in between a large bush and a tree, as if to keep it from dashing off. Sam then stands close to the dog, her long legs on either side of it, obstructing its movement.

“Thank you,” the woman says to me. “And thank you,” she adds, nodding toward Sam.

“Almost looks like Sam knows what she’s doing,” I laugh.

“Oh, I think she knows,” the woman says and reaches to pat Sam’s head. “She was trying to be helpful,” she adds in baby talk.

I’m not ready to give Sam that much credit, but it would be nice to think she truly had been trying to help, that she cared about the little dog’s safety, about the woman and her worries that the dog might be too hard to catch. It would be lovely to think Sam had been showing compassion; that her instincts were for good, that community was on her mind. It would be wonderful to believe that Sam may understand the whole of us, what really matters. America’s educational system is in a sorry state. We imprison too many people, our healthcare system is an inequitable mess, too many of us own too many weapons, we are chums with authoritarian leaders we should ostracize, racism runs through us like gangrene. But, what we have above it all is collective empathy. I believe that.

After thanking us again, the woman leashes her dog, and as she walks back home, she calls to us, “Happy Fourth!”

Sam and I head to our back yard, and I toss around a tennis ball she has left in the lawn. It is far too early for fireworks, it’s not time to light the grill, and the band members in the parade have not yet gathered to play Sousa’s “Stars and Stripes Forever,” but Independence Day is here, and one can trust that the idea of America might still be alive, that its people and its dogs might still believe this lofty experiment has a chance.

(Photo by Max Sulik)