Lesson in Learning: The one in which Jasper teaches Mum what to do (watch to end).
There’s an expression in business: “you win, or you learn.” I’d like to think this applies equally to life lessons in general. Maybe “win” isn’t quite the right word for the mundane trials and tribulations we all face; let’s go with something a little softer, like “advance” or “progress.”
For most of us humans, life learning necessitates several repetitions before we finally get it. In some cases, an anvil to the head may be required.
But our sweetie, Chaser? Naw, she always learned her lesson the very first time. Sometimes, in fact, too quickly.
To wit: morning walks. Even now, the dogs’ flexi-leashes hang on coat hooks right by the door for easy grabbing on the way out (I know, flexi-leashes are the devil. But they mostly work for us).
One morning, the hubs reached for the leash and, in his slumbery stupor, miscalculated the distance. He grabbed, knocked it off, and it crashed to the floor–about two inches from Chaser’s nose. It didn’t touch her, mind you; but it did emit a loud clang, and she might have felt a slight breeze as it plummeted toward the floor. But in no way did it make actual contact with her body.
Aside from recoiling, she seemed to have no reaction at all.
Now, here’s the interesting thing: the next time the hubs called the girls to go for a walk, Chaser held back. She wouldn’t walk right up to the front of the hallway, avoiding those coat hooks at all costs. Even when he enticed her over with a treat, she refused to budge until he had the leash firmly in his grip.
This ability to learn after a single “lesson” seemed to be baked into Chaser’s DNA. Even as a pup, it took but one reprimand for her to forever halt any undesired action, such as chewing on chair legs or nibbling the rug.
Once, when Chaser was about five months old, the Girls hung out in the back seat as I drove to the grocery store. It was one of those sharp spring mornings where the sky sparkles blue, trees emit the aroma of growing leaves and you can smell the worms kicking up the mud. I lowered the back windows about halfway to let the dogs revel in the scent-infused surroundings. Chaser had her nose out the window when I, unaware, began to raise it as we approached the parking lot.
Again, no actual pain was experienced; Chaser jerked her muzzle back and avoided getting squashed, somewhat like a reverse Harrison Ford in Raiders of the Lost Ark right before the security door slams down and he thrusts himself through the gap.
That was in 2007. I’m sorry to say that by 2022, when Chaser left us for good, she never again stuck her face out of an open car window. I tried leaving it open the entire ride; I tried parking, walking round the car and luring her from the outside; I tried edging the window more and more open as we went. Nope; she learned her lesson–the very first time.
If only people could learn as quickly, amiright?
What makes it more difficult for us to absorb the human lessons, I suspect, is that we attach various emotional reactions to, and draw conclusions based on, the mistakes we make.
When that window snuck up on her, you can be sure Chaser wasn’t thinking, “Gah! What an idiot I am! I should have seen it coming. What a dork. I bet Zoey would have known better. I’m just such a loser!” and so on. No, I’m pretty sure it went something like, “Window almost hit nose. Nose is sensitive. Avoid window in future.” Just the facts, ma’am.
It’s taken me a while to adopt the same mentality as Chaser: if something bad happens, I do my darndest not to take it personally, but to learn from the facts of the matter instead.
My program launch didn’t go as planned? Let’s assess and try to do it differently next time. (Not: “OMG, I am so bad at this. No one wants to take my course. I am such a loser.”)
The homemade fudge I attempted never solidified, remaining a puddle of sweet, rich, chocolatey pudding? Check to see how my attempt diverged from the instructions or which ingredients may have reacted differently. Endeavor to create a new recipe using the pudding**. (Not: “How could something so simple not work? What a waste of ingredients. No, I am a waste of a human being! I am such a loser!”).
Hubby convinces you to watch Kuibrick’s 2001, his all-time favorite film, and you don’t quite understand the ending? Ask him to explain it and seriously consider whether you agree with his interpretation. (Not: “How could I not understand this? Am I a simpleton? It’s just a stupid movie, for god’s sake! I feel like that mindless plinth! I AM SUCH A LOSER!!”).
And so on.
“Fudge, pudding—who cares, Mum? As long as it’s edible.”
Approaching our mistakes with detached curiosity rather than self-recrimination makes a huge difference in whether or not we learn from the experience, how we react the next time, and–perhaps most importantly–how we feel about ourselves.
Everyone makes mistakes. Not everyone learns from them.
See? Easy peasy. (Remember, no self-chastisement if you don’t quite get it.).
This week, I’ll attempt to align as much as possible with the latter group (those who learn as they go) and remain objective when it comes to mistakes. If I flub a coaching call with a client, I’ll review the exchange and determine how to do better next time. If I miss an appointment at the vet, I’ll double-check my calendar and add an extra reminder for the upcoming checkup. If I mistakenly refer to the HH by my ex’s first name, I’ll apologize—profusely (and also, maybe brush up on Freudian slips).
Whatever the error, no matter how large or small, I’ll forgive myself and vow to do a better job in future.
Care to join me?
** One of my favorite quotes, attributed to Julia Child, addresses just this type of botched endeavor in the kitchen: “There are no mistakes in cooking, only new recipes.”
********************
Follow up to last week’s challenge: Accept Necessary Pain
From what I can gather (based on conversations with friends and relatives), I seem to have a fairly high tolerance for pain. I don’t take meds after dental work, for instance. I also don’t take meds when I sprain a foot or when my back decides to “go out” (what an odd expression, right? Where is it going?), and I refused anesthesia during a D&C procedure, afterwards ignoring the painkillers they sent home with me.
Am I just masochistic? Honestly, I don’t believe so. But if I can manage pain without medical intervention, I prefer to do it that way. Generally, with ice, natural remedies and just a little time, things tend to recover.
But what if there’s no clear end in sight? Well, in that situation, turns out I’m a basket case.
A couple of years ago, I developed a sharp pain deep in my ear canal. My doctor diagnosed it as excess fluid in the eustachian tube, causing inflammation (and, consequently, pain). It felt like someone had inserted a steel kebab skewer deep into my ear, the pain referring up to my sinuses and down to my throat.
Despite using all the basic protocols prescribed (I irrigated the sinuses, used a steam tent, took decongestants and the like), nothing seemed to help.
After about six weeks of this torture, I began to worry that it would never go away. The thought of having to endure that level of pain indefinitely–well, let’s just say I was perilously close to the worst depression I’ve ever experienced, the lowest I’d been in my life.
Luckily, with a bit more time the situation did resolve and I got back to normal. But the experience taught me the clear distinction between “pain-with-an-end-date” and “pain-that’s-constant-and-potentially-permanent.” I have nothing but huge admiration for people who live long-term with migraines, rheumatoid arthritis, or any other constant and enduring pain.
That’s what I’d call truly accepting, and learning to live gracefully, with pain. Kudos to those of you who manage to continue functioning in those situations. (Please share your best tips!).
For now, I think I’ll require at least a few more years observing the dogs until I get there.
********************
As always, thank you for reading. If you enjoy Be the Dog, please share it with someone else! Or support me and my writing by subscribing with a paid or free subscription. I’ll be eternally grateful either way.
But some days there are too many falling leashes for the lessons to be understood.