What my dog knows about being present
Every morning, Stella and I slip into the woods together. She's my constant companion, this bright-eyed cattle dog who still bounces with pure puppy joy, as if every walk is her first adventure. I start out like I always do - phone buzzing in my pocket, mental checklist scrolling through my head like endless Twitter feed. Exercise for the dog: check. One more thing to cross off before the day really begins.
But Stella? She has other plans.
She catches a scent that stops her in her tracks, her whole body alert with curiosity. Her tail sweeps slow circles in the morning air as she investigates what might be mouse trails under fallen leaves, or maybe the lingering trace of a deer from hours ago. I tug gently at first - come on, girl, we've got places to be - but she plants her feet, throws me that look. You know the one. That soft-eyed, tongue-lolling grin that somehow says, "Hey mama, what's your hurry?"
And just like that, she hooks me.
I feel my fingers loosen on the leash. The mental chatter begins to quiet, like someone's slowly turning down the volume on my thoughts. The morning air is cool against my skin, heavy with dawn moisture and the sharp-sweet scent of cedar. Sunlight streams through the canopy in lazy golden ribbons, catching dust motes and making them dance.
Stella leads me deeper into this moment, her excitement contagious as she discovers each new treasure - a patch of wildflowers bending in the breeze, a fallen log rich with mysterious smells, a flutter of wings overhead that makes her ears perk and swivel. She's teaching me her language of wonder, showing me how to read the forest's morning stories written in scent and sound and subtle movement.
My breath deepens without me even trying. The tension in my shoulders - that knot of emails to answer, calls to make, deadlines to meet - begins to unwind. Out here, with Stella's warm presence beside me, those urgent tasks feel far away, like echoes from another world.
We find our rhythm together, this dance of pause and movement. Sometimes we stand still, letting the forest's quiet settle around us like falling leaves. Other times we meander, following whatever catches Stella's attention or draws my eye - maybe the way moss creeps up a tree trunk in delicate green patterns, or how a spider's web catches the light just so.
When we finally turn toward home, I realize my phone hasn't buzzed once - or maybe I just stopped feeling it. My mind isn't racing ahead anymore. Instead, I'm right here, feet crunching softly on the path, Stella's fur brushing against my leg as she walks close beside me. Her contentment radiates like warmth, and I find myself smiling, really smiling, not the quick reflexive kind but the deep sort that wells up from somewhere quiet inside.
This dog of mine - she's not just my companion, she's my teacher. Every morning, she shows me how to shed the weight of tomorrow's worries and sink into the rich, wild present. Here in our little patch of forest, with Stella's gentle guidance, I remember how to simply be.
And oh, what a gift that is.
