being with dogs

In the cathedral of my morning, only the laptop screen illuminates my hands as I begin to click out letters to make meaning. But then I am jarred by the sound of gnawing. Here I have shown up, habitually earnest, like a monk who has risen for matins. But something has changed, because there is that gnawing sound. And so I crane my neck to peek into the next room to confirm that my new big puppy is still on task with his purple pig. And then, satisfied, I return to the keyboard. But where was I? What was I groping for? What was important enough to pull me from my warm bed?

But now the gnawing sound has stopped altogether and I am truly concerned because I do not know him all that well yet, this pointy-eared new roommate. He may simply have fallen back asleep, but maybe he’s crept off, bored, to find a shoe or a distant table leg. All week long in this first week with him, I’ve been impressed the ways he finds to use his monkey mouth. And so I abandon my keyboard again to investigate and discover that everything is fine. But is it? When I decided to adopt this dog, I told myself nothing significant would change. That I would still be the same morning writer and meditator. But I do not return to my laptop. Instead I plunk down on the floor half-lotus and the big galoot flops into my lap, rubbing his sleepy eyes on my thigh and falling quickly into a dream.

I am stuck here now and my morning plan is in disarray. No problem, I tell myself, because I am disciplined but not rigid. I will be flexible. Yes, I can do that. As his breath deepens, I follow my own breath and drop in. I straighten my back and focus on the air flowing through my nose but quickly become hijacked by the thought that I’ve been trapped. by this big baby, this little beast. He who cares nothing about my essays, mindfulness practice, or worthiness. He who dreams now of his mother’s milky, warm belly, of herding sheep, of roaming alone on some ancient savannah. But because his body breathes more deeply, so does mine.

And then my hand rises with a will of its own to stroke the silky ridge between his ears, and another thought arises. I do not entertain chasing it away or even examining it very thoroughly. It’s not a thought of gratitude or acceptance or detachment. It’s not about liberation or compassion or doing the right thing. It’s more like a mantra, just two words to contain all that wants to be said and done. “Good boy,” I whisper as I lean back against the sofa and join my puppy in his dreamland.

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