How To Be A Dog

Finding a model for joy and ease in an otherwise chaotic mind.

I’ve long been mildly obsessed with the idea of trying to be more like my dogs. For one, they seem to have mastered self-acceptance, a characteristic I strive for. A failed frisbee catch only leads to the excitement of trying again. Their unconditional love, compassion, lust for life, and their ready-to-go mindsets already guarantee that they’ll be loved by anyone with an ounce of empathy. There’s an account on Instagram of a person who has a collie costume and films awkward videos as if they are the dog, doing dog things. It’s terrifying. Just to be clear, that is not what I mean.

The idea of being like a dog, as gimmicky as it may sound, has given me grace. It serves as a reference point for how I can soften my approach. Some days, life torments me. My to-do list stifles me. Social engagements and deadlines loom. My body aches. Expenses pile up and my wallet is dust. On days like these, I need to harness a doglike objectivity. And right on cue, the dogs pull me outside for an intermission. But of course, a cacophony of successes and failures await back inside.

Underneath these layers I lay wide-eyed, oscillating between physical exercise and dissociation and mindfulness practices and amphetamine assisted focus. All seem futile at regulating life’s endless barrage of threats. Occasionally, however, as if by divine intervention, I’ll stop and laugh at the absurdity of it all. My life is a momentary movie complete with a soundtrack by The Album Leaf. For a moment, I’m above my body. I’m suddenly an outside observer, a friend to myself, embodying the reality that hey! it isn’t all that complicated.

These moments, where my big complicated life becomes not so big, I’m offered a welcomed perspective. I wonder if my dogs are this effortlessly relinquished from drama. I wonder if it’s possible to emulate this simplicity, and if that might lend itself to effective emotional regulation among other things. Dogs focus on one task at a time. Chase the ball. Eat the food. Smell the bush. Sink into the couch. And sniff the air, incase any of the aforementioned tasks need tending. One. Thing. At. A. Time.

I’m human, so truthfully, I can’t emulate a dog. On the other hand, I’m human. I can observe and weigh my witness of my dog’s joie-de-vivre on a scale against my own. These beautiful dogs. Boo, at rest. His lungs filling with air. A big sigh escapes his nostrils. A gentle drip polishes his black leathery nose. He’s fully embodied. Is this enlightenment? Will I ever know what it’s like to be a dog? I’ve had this question since before I had the words for it.

When Yaya and Boo chase each other through the forest, I can’t look away. Every yip and gallop pulling me deeper into their charades. Every fumble and frolic freeing the dramas I embody. My face smiles and life is easy. When I talk about being a dog, this is what I mean. In these moments, I do become a dog. An unencumbered objective witness adopting a practice of embodiment rather than escapism. My mind is at ease and my body breathes. Unbothered by the weather. Finding comfort in life’s interwoven layers as if I’m floating above them.

Being a dog means being in the moment, and being in acceptance of whatever chaos or calm unfolds. Though the human condition is inescapable, our steadfast furry friends are always there, setting an example of how to be. Your dog wouldn’t give a second thought to an unfinished project, a failed attempt, a harsh critic, a should-have, or a would-have. They’ll enjoy the good things they have, and wait excitedly for the next one. Despite the determination of chasing a ball, there’s also a playfulness to be admired. How To Be A Dog, I hope, embodies some of that playfulness. And if you ever catch me wearing a dog costume for content, maybe don’t reward that behaviour.

With love,

Andrew, Yaya, and Boo