Whenever I open the back door after dark, Luci's posture transforms from docile to full-on attack mode, tightening her muscles, head low to spring into action. As the door swings open, she runs like the wind to a corner of the yard where once upon a time she saw a wild, vicious, dangerous intruder.
I have never seen this intruder, nor have I ever seen Luci as predator, but she is certain such a creature exists exactly where she last spotted him, two years ago. Full of focus and confidence, she runs, intent on ridding her plot of this menace.
But what if she caught it? What would she do? Unlike myself and most humans, she doesn't think ahead or strategize; she acts on canine wildness embedded in her DNA.
To what enterprise do you want to give your full and fearless focus in this new year?
One of the best things about dogs is their hopefulness, never dimmed by experience to the contrary.
While she has rarely had a bite of juicy steak, she always hopes for a meaty and delicious edible Nirvana. As the day wears on, with nothing fragrant or succulent on the horizon, she resorts to her kibble. But she doesn't eat it with her head down as she would my dinner leftovers or a juicy bone. She holds her head up and chomps noisily, deliberately, casting a bored and reproachful look at her feeder. Is this the best you can do? Really?
Luci doesn't have to obey a demand to get her favorite treat--salmon jerky from Trader Joe's. Immediately upon getting one, salivating at the sound of the treat bag, she runs--as if I might chase her down for it. She goes under the table, places both paws protectively around her treat, and scarfs it down. Then she looks up hopefully: Do I get another one?
We humans might learn a thing or two from dogs: Be persistent, and when you get what you hope for, protect it.
What do you hope for in 2023?
Luci is the sort of dog who sleeps so close to me there's not space enough between us for a post-it note. If a part of my body hurts, she senses it and goes there, all ten pounds of her, her little engine firing on all cylinders, my canine heating pad.
But, if I accidentally push a knee or elbow against her in my sleep, she growls a muted version of the howl of her ancestors, a gentle reminder that I should move back into my space and stop disturbing her sleep with random movements.
Everyone hurts at times.
How do we best find where it hurts and do our best to make it better? And how do we protect our own spaces from random pokes?
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