The Unexpected Ways My Dog Changed My Life

Before my dog became part of my life, I thought I had a pretty good idea of what would change. I would plan my days around his schedule, get outside and walk every day, spend money on food, toys, vet appointments, and things I had never previously considered buying, and accept that at least one corner of my home would always have a basket of dog toys.

I expected all of that.

What I didn't expect was the countless little (but not so little) ways he would change me. 

There are plenty of days when, left entirely to my own devices, I would not go outside. 

Maybe I'm tired, in a bad mood, overwhelmed, or maybe the idea of putting on shoes somehow feels like an unreasonable amount of effort. My dog is not particularly interested in the countless ways I could justify lying in bed under several layers of blankets. 

He needs to go out, so we go.

And I cannot tell you how many times I stepped outside feeling awful and realized, within about thirty seconds, that I felt just a little bit better. 

Nothing dramatic changed. In fact, nothing really changed at all. 

Sometimes it's the warm sun on my face, sometimes the cold air when my head feels foggy, and sometimes we get outside right as the sky is turning pink and I realize I almost missed the most incredible ten seconds of the day. 

I know the sun, fresh air, and a little movement can help me on those harder days. I also know that when I'm overwhelmed, my instinct is usually to make my world smaller, but taking the dog out has a way of opening my world up again, even just a little. 

There is also something so comforting about being loved by a dog that makes my own opinion of myself less important, even for a moment.

Whether I've had a great week or a terrible one, whether I feel fulfilled, disappointed, lost, afraid, or like I'm somehow falling behind, none of that changes the way he sees me. 

He doesn't know when I am questioning every decision I made since 2014. He doesn't know when I feel like I should have accomplished more by now, figured something out already, or be further along in some way.

The way he sees it, I'm still the same person I was yesterday. He still wants to sit next to me (with a very loose interpretation of "next to"), still gets excited when I walk through the door, and still runs to grab his favorite toy and brings it over like I am the best thing that has happened all day. 

So much of the way we see ourselves gets tangled up in what we've done, what we've accomplished, what we think we should have accomplished, and whether our lives look the way we thought they were supposed to by now.

We absorb all these timelines and expectations, and it can be hard not to use them as a measuring stick. 

Then I look over at my sweet, silly boy, whose opinion of me is completely unaffected by any of it.

My dog has no interest in the timelines, expectations, and invisible standards I constantly measure myself against.

To him, I'm just me.

(Unless, of course, one of those standards involves the appropriate number of treats. On that, he has very strong opinions;)

Having a dog also made me notice things I didn't pay attention to before. 

The little wildflowers growing near the telephone pole.

How different the same street looks at 7 a.m. versus 7 p.m.; the tiny rituals of people I may never speak to.

How quickly the sky changes when you actually stand still long enough to watch it.

Or the way my dog's ears perk up when he hears something that may not even be audible to me. 

My dog has gathered his own set of neighborhood information, although his seems to require much more sniffing and considerably less concern for getting anywhere in particular. And it made me realize just how much of our lives we miss while we are busy trying to get somewhere else.

I still get impatient sometimes; I still have places to be, things to finish, and days when I would very much prefer that we keep moving instead of conducting a thorough investigation of one square foot of grass. 

I think what changed, though, is the beauty I've come to see in the in-betweens.

We are very good at turning our lives into a series of destinations. We convince ourselves that the important part is getting there, wherever "there" happens to be at the moment. We rush through the middle as though everything between here and there is just transit.

We spend so much time preparing to live our lives that we forget our lives are happening right now, right here, right in the middle of it all.

Sometimes I think it takes a dog who is perfectly content to stop in the middle of nowhere to remind you that it is still somewhere.

Sometimes it takes a dog who is entirely unconcerned with where we are going to remind you that you're already there.

So yes, my dog may slow me down. 

But maybe, just maybe, that is the point.