Epilogue
The Dream Comes True—An Artful Transformation
No need to remember past events,
no need to think about what was done before.
Look, I am doing something new,
now it emerges; can you not see it?
—Isa. 43:18–19
Then Jacob awoke from his sleep and said, “Truly, God is in this place and I did not know!” He was afraid and said, “How awe-inspiring this place is! This is nothing less than an abode of God, and this is a gate of heaven!”
—Gen. 28:16–17
BROTHER CHRISTOPHER Throughout this book we’ve spoken of how the relationship between dogs and humans has evolved over time, and how our current cultural circumstances present unique challenges to a relationship that our ancestors didn’t have to face in quite the same way. As we’ve seen, the popularity and, hence, population of pet dogs have skyrocketed, and sometimes the challenges of the modern world have had negative effects on the relationship, driving us to think creatively about how to address these challenges properly. For the conscientious dog owner, caring for a dog requires being in step with what the dog truly needs. This means paying attention to the true nature of the dog and taking an active role in being a good leader. The good pack leader provides a dog with what she values and wants. When we manage to do this, the relationship flourishes in ways that benefit both our dog and us.
But beyond the tangible benefits the relationship brings both parties, we’ve learned that there is a profound connection felt by the owner who is paying attention, who is conscious of the precious ebb and flow of the now. It is a connection that helps ground us in the awareness that we are part of a vast network of creation that is filled with God’s presence and that can give deep meaning and reassurance to our lives. Understanding nature as revelatory is something those of us who live the monastic life have felt from earliest times. For example, St. Antony the Great—one of the most renowned of the early Christian Desert Fathers in the third century CE —once received a visiting philosopher in his desert abode. In the course of the visit, the philosopher asked how such an educated man as his host got along in the desert without books. Abba Antony replied, “My book, O Philosopher, is the nature of created things, and as often as I have a mind to read the words of God, they are right at my hand.” Such an understanding helps us see how a relationship with a dog can itself be a word of God, making us aware of God’s presence in nature.
Fortunately, this insight is not reserved solely for monks. It is available to every human being by virtue of his or her humanity. It reflects a sense of connection that transcends specific religious beliefs. We have repeatedly encountered people of differing religious beliefs (even people without any formal religious affiliation) who, while they may not be able to verbalize it, intuit immediately the truth that their relationship with their dog sensitizes them to the mystery present in the broader natural world, a mystery that surrounds and encompasses each of us. There is a spiritual insight here that is well worth exploring.
Now let’s acknowledge that some of our readers might find the word spirituality, like the even more loaded word God, a bit scary and off-putting. Spirituality, as we are using the term, involves the way we stay connected to reality in its most profound sense, and as such, it includes but extends well beyond formal religion. How might that be? Well, by helping us learn to see reality a bit differently than we ordinarily do. While many religious people view life dualistically as divided into sacred and secular realms—going to church, for example, as opposed to the more typical daily routine of work—what true spirituality helps us accomplish is a graceful integration of the two realms. It does this by uniting the experience of spiritual practice with our everyday lives. We become aware of an abiding presence that follows us long after we’ve left church and that we recognize in the most unexpected of places: like in the relationship we share with our dog.
People sometimes ask, “How did this insight into the spiritual character of the human-dog relationship develop for you?” In a way, living in a monastery naturally facilitates it. A monk dedicates himself to searching for God in all things, in all the aspects of his life.
For me, one such experience occurred after I had been training dogs for a few years. When I was first assigned to work in the training program at New Skete, I was so overwhelmed with learning how to train that I didn’t really have time to think much about the spiritual nature of the relationship. I was so consumed with learning the ropes and providing instruction for our clients that anything beyond that didn’t really occur to me. It was a period of intense learning. I was fortunate that after a while I discovered I had a talent for training, and since I was working every day with a variety of dogs, my technical skills grew. Yet I didn’t realize that something fundamental was missing, something that went beyond technical mastery. One day I was practicing with a dog that was to be going home the following day. It was a beautiful Labrador retriever that had done well in the training program. We were practicing the routine at heel when suddenly something changed. I was no longer just engaged in a training exercise. Instead, it was as if the two of us were doing ballet, totally in sync with each other. Our attention was entirely focused on each other, and the moment seemed outside of time. There was such a sense of unity and oneness that it allowed me to sense the spiritual connection. For those precious minutes I experienced a harmony, a oneness with this dog, that was as prayerful as any I had spent in church. And then the little light went on, the aha moment that changed me forever. It helped me see how the whole of life is a piece, a sacred dance that is linked together, and how we get to continually move through its unfolding.
Integrating all the elements of life into a spiritual whole is not just a goal for monastics. It’s a goal for all of us. If you’re a Christian monk, naturally you’ll describe this process as living consciously in God’s presence, but it can also be described in any number of other ways. No matter: The reality is the same. And while the scope of this work is as broad as life itself, we’ve discovered that a relationship with a dog can, in a particularly poignant way, put us in direct touch with the mystery of God present in nature.
All we have to do is open our eyes. Taking a quiet walk with our dog in the woods, for example, can take us out of our anxieties and concerns, and can provide the occasion to notice the beauty that fills all creation, that continuously surrounds us even when we fail to perceive it. Simply noticing on such a walk the dog’s body language, its fascination with the feast of scent, and how the dog takes in all that happens around it is a reminder to us to listen as well. Before we know it, our feelings have shifted, and we’re better able to walk with equanimity and calm.
Another way dogs help keep us in touch with reality is by being a reliable source of self-knowledge. Because dogs are naturally conditioned to observe the widest range of communicative signs from their peers—from the subtleties of body language to the many different types of vocalizing—dogs tend to read reality like a book, and that includes us. They respond honestly to whatever they perceive. Dogs are guileless; they simply don’t lie, and as such they are a valuable means of self-knowledge and self-awareness. They mirror back to us our emotional state directly and in ways that humans can’t. By paying attention to our dogs, we can become more aware of how we’re coming across to others. Who has not had the experience of being impatient with our dog and then noticing the response of sadness and hurt inscribed over his body? Such an occasion is the opportunity for us to be honest with ourselves, and to work on changing. It is not just the dog that deserves better: All with whom we come in contact deserve better as well.
Naturally, such self-discipline highlights the importance of listening to what is really going on, of discerning what is needed in a particular situation. A spiritual person is one who listens to what reality is saying and then acts on that basis. In terms of how this plays out in a relationship with a dog, it becomes our task to understand what truly serves the relationship and then to carry that out. All of the lessons of leadership we have spoken about throughout this book do precisely this. But they also help us to respond to life on a much broader and more conscious level.
Since dogs, like us, are intrinsically social creatures that thrive on relationship, that is even more the case when those bonds are faithful and strong. It is illuminating to examine the spontaneous delight dogs take in life when playing. The dog cannot hide its joy as it romps with a playmate on the beach or initiates a game of canine tag in an open field. Dogs radiate an awareness of the gift of the moment, the joy of the simplest pleasures, and that can speak meaningfully to us if we are awake. How often do we take life’s simplest pleasures for granted? The dog certainly doesn’t, and happy are we when we take its example to heart.
But dogs also share with us deeper moments, such as when we notice our dog gazing at us intently in shared silence, and we can read the depth of feeling that is there. What is so amazing, so mysterious, is that this comes from a creature of another species. In such a moment, perhaps we have been fortunate enough to wonder how we could ever possibly merit such love and devotion. How could it be anything other than grace? This is a wondrous thing to experience, and deeply humbling. For in spite of all our imperfections—the times with our dog that we could have handled better, when we have acted selfishly or even foolishly—the dog still loves us. The dog is able to see through all of our limitations and still desire to be with us. How can that not change us, heal us? It is when we feel something akin to this emotion that we are able to see ourselves in a new way through our dog’s eyes. That sort of experience can teach us something of the very mystery of God: how God sees us, how God never gives up on us but continues to encourage us forward. And that can provide us with the inspiration to truly change, to become our best selves. We learn to live our dreams.
MARC Gus was my first dog. He lived from the time I was eleven years old until I was nearly thirty. He was with me from the innocence of childhood all the way through high school, college, and the beginning of my adult life. I spent countless hours of my childhood—and his—training Gus. He remembered and performed his complicated obedience routine into his dotage, way after deafness and strokes, and until shortly before he died at nearly eighteen.
He was a sheltie born April 29, 1969. Now long gone, Gus came to me in a dream several years ago.
In it, he spoke to me in words that did not come out of his mouth, but which I heard. This is the exact exchange:
“Where are you?” Gus asked, intense in his longing for me.
“I’ll come to you one day,” I told him.
“But I have been waiting so long,” he said.
“Because it’s not my time yet,” I told him. “But I will come.”
Gus paused, but only briefly.
“I’ll wait for you,” he said.
“Find Bobbi and Frannie,” I said. “They are greyhounds. They are mine too, and they will know you. They will wait with you.”
“I will,” Gus said, and he left me slowly, reluctantly, at my bidding. I woke up crying, as I cry now recounting the experience.
I have always known that dogs care about us on the deepest possible levels, but only recently did I put together my own concept of why.
I think Gus came to me that night because I was finally ready to understand the answer to my long-held question: Why do dogs care about us so much?
They care because—more than the food, shelter, and comfort we dispense—we provide them with a sense of purpose, a reason to exist, and a belief that they’re not alone. When led properly, dogs consider us to be more than their pack mates or even pack leaders.
We are like their gods.
Their faith in us is absolute. It’s never questioned. It’s never in crisis.
When a dog is trained, he learns that he no longer has to make every decision in his life. A dog that pulls on the leash and is out of control is not a satisfied dog. Yet, if that behavior is all the dog knows, he’ll do it over and over. I see this now as a cry for help, the way the dog shows his longing for leadership.
But once the dog has learned to share decision-making with a human being, a sacred bond is formed that lasts his entire life and, maybe, even endures death.
I think that’s what Gus was telling me. And that feeling is as beautiful as any I’ve ever had.
Gus revealed to me the art of living with a dog.