Every so often, the dog we rescued last summer on Kauai and brought home to Idaho summons her courage.

She creeps carefully out of her kennel in the living room and ventures into the kitchen, the living room or even our bedroom.

She is on full alert the entire time, vigilant for anything or anyone, taking timid steps. The slightest noise or movement causes her to flee in fright, paws scrambling and slipping on the floor. She hurries to her kennel and cowers in the back.

The courage she briefly displayed disappears in the face of a perceived, unknown threat. All she knows is that something doesn't feel right. Something could go wrong. There is danger. Retreat.

It is frustrating because I want her to come running to greet me each night I return home. I want her to be joyful and confident.

I hate to say it, but, in a way, I am much like our dog.

Courage is not among my virtues. When faced with uncertainty, when obstacles arise, I tend to fall back to what is comfortable. I am not wild about taking chances that are destined for failure.

When in doubt, I often freeze. Take no action. Stop. Just hope things turn out OK.

I think courage demands some kind of action, some kind of resolve to stand firm under fire, to keep moving forward.

I looked up a few definitions of courage:

• Mental or moral strength to venture, persevere, and withstand danger, fear or difficulty.
• The ability to do something that frightens one.
• Strength in the face of pain or grief.
• The ability to control fear and to be willing to deal with something that is dangerous, difficult, or unpleasant

Now, you might ask, surely I’ve done something that might fall into one of those definitions. I agree. Let me think.

Perhaps when I accepted a new job on Kauai and we moved across the ocean, although relocating to Hawaii to be the editor of a newspaper hardly seems brave.

Despite a great fear of the deep since I was a kid, I’ve done a few Ironmans. But a wetsuit is a great insurance policy in the water. And to be honest, I never venture too far from shore without a wetsuit or floatation device

I have done some solo trail running at Glacier National Park that required navigating some fairly narrow cliffs where a misstep would mean a long fall. I’ve had a few close encounters with moose and grizzlies, but only by accident.

As a journalist, I’ve interviewed people who I believed exhibited courage.

One man on Kauai, blind, trained to run a half marathon with a friend by linking their arms with a rope. He finished.

Another man lost part of his leg to a shark attack. It did not keep him from returning to the ocean to become a great underwater photographer.

My friends, Joe and Rose Mary Peak, former owners of The Snake Pit in Enaville, lost their battles with cancer a decade ago but I will always remember their warm ways and cheerful greetings. They made me feel like someone who mattered.

My mother fought courageously following the death of my father. They had been married for more than six decades, so when my mom found herself alone, it broke her heart.

But there were days her old spirit would emerge, her laugh and smile would return and her eyes would sparkle again.

I recall once trying to get her to do some exercises.

“I can’t do it,” she said, grimacing.

“You can do it,” I answered.

“I can’t do it,” she insisted.

After a few minutes of this back and forth, she did it.

“See, you can do it,” I said.

She beamed with pride and shook her head.

“I’m not doing it again,” she said, laughing.

So when I am afraid, I think about people I have known and loved and written about. I remember how they endured through trying times. They did not let fear hold them back.

Perhaps someday our dog and I, together, can do the same.

Bill Buley is a reporter with The Press. He can be reached at [email protected]