Do you have a favorite "fitness flashback?" Richard Simmons rockin' knee socks, Olivia Newton John getting physical, Cindy Crawford stepping off the catwalk and into our living rooms with her 90s workout video, or Billy Blanks and his total Tae Bo domination? Do tell! 
"If you wanna make the world a better place, take a look at yourself and make a CHANGE." 
Confession? I'm a bit of a square. I know, try to contain your surprise. You know when people say they want to get drunk and make some bad decisions (a la Vince Vaughn's character in Wedding Crashers)? For me that's two glasses of red wine at Sel de la Terre and a pledge to run the Boston Marathon. Yes, 2 glasses of wine = drunk, and the Boston Marathon = a good or bad decision, depending on the mile at which you'd ask me.
You can learn a lot from observing a dog, but you knew this already. You have a dog of your own, were a fan of Lassie or Clifford or Marley and Me, or, simply, are more attuned to the canine world than I am. You know that they teach loyalty, unconditional love, unparalleled listening skills, and living in the moment- all attributes to emulate. Sniffing a stranger's bum upon meeting? Not so much.
Three years ago, my parents diagnosed their empty nest syndrome by adding a canine companion to the mix, a shrewd move that has fostered many new bonds within our family. Dad and the dog. Mom and the dog. Mom and Dad over the care-taking (ahem, pampering) of the dog . . . You get the idea.
For a family that never thrived as pet owners (with the exception of fish), we now collectively take great pride in our dog’s development. He’s in the 98th percentile for eating, sleeping, and chewing socks. (Is it me, or is there only one percentile into which all American children fall? It seems everyone boasts that his or her child is in the 98th percentile, but I digress).
Yesterday, I watched with chagrin as our dog engaged in behavior that made him seem less than astute. He stood, stone still, for what seemed like hours, staking out a mouse in my mother’s garden. OK, so his primal hunting instincts overrule everything else. Fine. However, here’s the problem: There was no mouse. True, there had been mice living in this particular urn in the garden many months ago- thus producing an alluring smell to his keen doggie nose- but they were gone now. Nevertheless, there he stood, transfixed by the notion that his afternoon would be filled with profound fun and accomplishment if he waited just a bit longer. And waited . . . and waited.
He didn’t want to play or eat or go for a walk on the beach with me. He wanted to pass the time on a beautiful day on Cape Cod in the early summer standing in the yard with his head in a garden urn. It was like watching a child put on a dunce cap and sit in the corner, staring at the wall, voluntarily.
Out of sympathy and on separate occasions, my dad and I both tipped the urn over slightly so Remy could see that there were no mice inside. Still, he persisted. Finally, just as I was about to question my dog’s intelligence and innate skills as a hunter, I realized something revelatory. My dog is teaching me a larger philosophical lesson about LIFE. He is not stupid but rather a bodhisattva incarnated as a dog. Hear me out . . .
He wasn’t hunting imaginary critters; he was teaching us the important lesson of letting go, or in Buddhism, “non-attachment.” Determination, perseverance, and focus are all positive qualities; however, there is no more positive, life-giving quality than reality. What good is perseverance, if we are persevering something that no longer exists? A view of the world that no longer suits us, a relationship we’ve outgrown, a career path that no longer enriches or inspires us, an image of ourselves that’s outdated?
Yet, the seductive scent of the past lingers, so we wait. We persist; we miss sunny afternoons frolicking on the lawn because we’re standing in a shady corner of the yard with our head stuck in an urn. The past is compelling or rather our perceptions of it. We know we found mice there before- or happiness, or love, or a sense of accomplishment- so we insist that it will return. We’re fiercely committed to the illusion.
Hours later, having satisfactorily excavated the meaning of life from watching my misguided mutt, I sat on the deck fiddling on my laptop, playing a game I often like to play. It’s called Type a Few Sentences- Delete Them- Stare at The Cursor- Then Sigh. It’s a real hoot, you should try it some time.
“Hey, ya know he was right?” my Dad said, interrupting this flurry of productivity.
“Huh?”
“Mom tipped the urn all the way over, and a mouse WAS living inside. He scurried away, and Remy chased him into the woods. He was right.”
Son of a gun, I thought to myself; my tidy Om Gal philosophy shot to hell. Now, where’s the lesson in that? Stand around patiently all day, looking like a dope, for the abbreviated thrill of chasing a mouse into the woods?
Perhaps it's trust your instincts, but I have to ask my dog.
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