If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say that most people, if asked what was the most positive trait they recognize in dogs, would respond: “They know how to be in the moment.”
It’s one of the great lessons we learn from our canine companions, right? Don’t worry about the future, don’t ruminate about the past; just enjoy the present for everything it can be.
I’ve had many debates with the hubs over this one. “Dogs don’t have memories,” he is fond of telling me.
“Oh yeah? Then why does Zoey start to whine a full block before we get to daycare? Because she knows where we’re going, that’s why! She REMEMBERS Derrick and how much fun she had there!”
Or: “Oh yeah? Then why did Chaser always avoid the front hall when you got ready for a walk? Why did she refuse to come to you until the leash was in your hand? Because she REMEMBERED that one time the leash fell off the hook onto the floor and almost hit her! That’s memory!!”
And what about: “Oh yeah? Then why did Elsie go ballistic when she saw Mark again, even after ten years? She REMEMBERED that he fed her steak and treats for ten days while we were on vacation!” (Man, she really did adore that guy).
Zoey remembered how much she loved daycare, even during the pandemic.
The point is, of course dogs have memory. Now, do they spend their time reminiscing about the past, wishing they could go to doggie daycare, re-living the trauma of the fallen flexi-leash, or pining after that steak and treats?
Likely not.
Similarly, I have to agree with the HH about future-oriented thoughts. I don’t see evidence of my dogs planning for the future (unless you consider hiding a rawhide under the couch “planning”) or dreaming about good things to come.
No, dogs are immensely suited to enjoying the present moment, no matter the circumstances.
Snowstorm or no snowstorm, Zoey is ready to play.
Case in point: one particularly memorable walk with Zoey a couple of months ago. The weather was abysmal (think six inches/15 cm of fresh snow, frigid temperatures and blistering winds).
While I had a fair degree of trouble moving freely due to seven layers of clothing, two scarves, a parka, gloves inserted into mittens, a toque secured in place by earmuffs and a hood, plus knee-high galoshes, Zoey romped without even a moment’s notice of the cold or excessive snow and wind.
I tromped along to the best of my ability, using all my effort to simply stay upright. Zoey, on the other hand, leapt and pranced, snuffling the snow every now and again, oblivious to the cold and the dead, grey skies.
Then, she saw it: the tip of a stick poking out of a snowbank. I barely made it behind her as she yanked on the leash to get over there. She chomped into the stick, extracting it from the packed snow, then began a series of snorts as she alternately tossed it into the air, then pounced to retrieve it. Over and over, the game went on, until we finally pulled her away and kept walking.
It was a great lesson. When had I lost that same joie de vivre, that ability to snatch any reason to enjoy where I was and what I was doing? In fact, it made me remember (because humans do relive past events in their heads) a time, about a decade ago, when I’d been with Elsie and Chaser in a similar snowstorm.
At that time, equally bundled up, I took the girls to a field near our house. The snow was so deep it seeped into my boots at the knee with each step. Nevertheless, the dogs were so enchanted with the powdery white stuff and the pristine field that they began romping and playing with abandon.
Before I knew it, I was cavorting with them–running and chasing and throwing snow at them so they could jump up and catch it in their mouths (Chaser, in particular, was a fan of this game). And then–I slipped. I fell flat on my back.
With ten inches of snow as my cushion, I remained intact. At first, I struggled like a turtle on its back to right myself. Then I just gave in and started flinging snow at the dogs, who were ecstatic to see Mum at face-height for once.
They licked my face, pawed my parka and continued to frolic around me. We all had a rip–roaring time before I finally rolled over and got myself upright again.
It was actually one of the most enjoyable times I had with the dogs (and definitely the most enjoyable time I’ve had outdoors during winter). Instead of fuming over the frigid temperatures, having to shovel snow or the slush that seemed to darken every street and sidewalk, I leapt in and had a blast. For a few precious moments, I had fun with the dogs and forgot how much I loathe winter.
So why not try this again–soon? At this point in the year, we’re just about to head into “humid season” when my T-shirt sticks to my ribs with sweat, my ankles swell up for no apparent reason and I start to pant like The Girls. Sure, we can use air conditioning indoors, but what about when I walk Zoey outside?
Maybe I’ll hop into the kiddie pool with her to cool down, or chase her around the (shady) yard with her ball. Or I might just lean down and drink right from the hose as she’s wont to do. If I truly live in the moment, I’ll decide right then.
How does a spontaneous romp in the grass sound?
This week, I’ll stop to enjoy the moment at random times during the day. Whether here at my desk, outside with the dog, or while shopping for groceries–my goal is to recognize and appreciate how to be present to (and enjoy) whatever’s available right then and there.
Follow up to last week’s challenge: Be reliable.
I have to admit that, as a rule, reliability isn’t an issue for me. And since I find the concept of “ghosting” so distasteful, you’d think I’d be extra-vigilant in my efforts to show up on time, meet commitments and basically be a person one can count on to do what she says.
And mostly, that’s me. Except last week. . . .
In general, I’ve been told I’m pretty anal when it comes to appointments and meetings. I remember reading a magazine survey once. The first question was, “If someone says they’ll meet you at 10:00 AM and they arrive at 10:05, do you consider them late?” Well, DUH. Of course they’re late! It’s five minutes past the agreed-upon time—that’s LATE!
Accordingly, if I need to be somewhere at noon and the typical travel time is 20 minutes, I’ll leave the house at 11:20, thereby allotting 40 minutes to get there. If it turns out that my transit time is even quicker than anticipated, I’ll grab our table, get comfortable and may find myself sipping a mint tea for a half hour (side note: always carry a book on you for just such occasions).
This week, however, I my time estimate failed me: I arranged a Zoom meeting at 10:30 AM on the day I bring Zoey to daycare. No worries there: I drop her off at 10:00 and it takes about seven minutes to drive between our home and daycare. That gave me loads of leeway.
Unless the city decides to begin some surprise construction, that is.
Well, it really shouldn’t have been a surprise. Within days of the last frost, not only do gardeners everywhere begin their planting, but North American cities everywhere also begin their construction (it’s a cliche here in Toronto to say that there are only two seasons: Winter; and Construction).
But honestly, are those traffic-light cameras really necessary? Who benefits from them? Certainly not I. And certainly not the other morning when I needed to be home, composed and sitting at my computer, matcha tea in hand by 10:30 AM.
When I glanced at the clock and saw it was already 10:27—and I still had more than half the route left to navigate—I knew there was no chance of meeting the original commitment. True to form, I texted the other person and advised them of the situation; I offered to meet from the car. Luckily, they were able to reschedule and all was well in the end.
Was I still reliable because I let the other person know about my issue in advance of the meeting time? I’d like to think so. And I believe that people really do appreciate a word from you rather than radio silence.
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