Lessons from Our Dog

As I write this, our wheaten terrier Finn chases around the table where I sit, playing with a latex pig dog toy that grunts when he mouths it. It really sounds like a little pig. He loves to chew on the ears, which makes the pig grunt some more. He plops in front of the patio door where light streams in, chews his pig, stretches out, and is happy.

Having a puppy around reminds me how little it can take to be happy. At five-and-a-half months, Finn is already over 25 pounds. He loves everyone, has discovered rabbits and squirrels, and can last through a four-mile-hike. His needs are simple: food, water, shelter, a place to poop, playtime, and people to love him. 

Summer is unfolding here in Minnesota. Now that we are post-Memorial Day, our moods have shifted to embrace days of gardening, hiking, grilling, beer on the deck, evenings outdoors until it’s dark. Time spent with friends and family is easier, less planned. Life feels simpler for now.

This is the time of year when I realize I often loathe planning things far ahead, preferring to do things as they pop up. Being in the moment and scheduling stuff on the calendar feels like a dissonant pairing to me, forcing me away from what’s in front of me. I know planning has to happen for some things – job assignments, doctor appointments, milestone celebrations, that kind of stuff. But nothing beats spur-of-the-moment – seeing a neighbor while out walking and having a chat, calling friends down the street for an impromptu happy hour in the back yard, having a kid or two show up for dinner. This is the sort of lifestyle I like best. Laid-back, easy, no need for a dog sitter or a babysitter or a change of clothes or circling around looking for parking. Room for everyone.

Room for daydreaming, too.

Mick and I continue to read aloud from Pico Iyer’s Aflame over breakfast. The questions examined therein – What do we learn from silence? What to we bring back to our daily lives after sitting in silence? What do we really need to be happy? – fit right in with my summer mood. Especially the “what do we really need to be happy” question. 

Not as much as we think. That shift has been happening for me for a long time. The less stuff there is to worry about, the better. Travel was where I truly learned less is more: packing too much stuff hinders how we move around. Traveling lightly makes trips much more enjoyable, makes me feel freer. I stopped worrying about having lots of clothes to choose from – just in case – and now take only what I absolutely need and can rinse out in the sink if necessary. 

Making the leap from traveling lightly to living lightly is harder but just as satisfying. I’m in the process of paring down my wardrobe at home, too. But being satisfied with less is about so much more than clothes or shoes or whatever it is that we feel we should have to be happy. 

It’s about considering how open space in our lives invites love and connection, leaves room for moments of awe. 

As Mick and I read about Iyer’s loss of his mother’s Santa Barbara house in a fire, we talked about what would happen if we lost our house and the stuff in it. What would we really miss? What would we replace and what would we let go of? It’s an interesting exercise in understanding what is truly valuable in this life we’ve built together. I look around at our old furniture – we put off replacing our 20-year-old couch because of Finn – and figure if it’s clean and can still cradle our bodies while we watch a movie or listen to music, it’s fine. Our books are overflowing from our old bookshelves and that’s the way I like it. My memories of wonderful times include people, conversation, food shared, wine sipped, flowers perfuming a summer evening, a table outside somewhere, a dog at my feet. 

And half of those great memories are not from this house. They’re from all over the world.

I do love this spot where I’m working on my laptop. I have an office, but seldom sit in it when the weather is warm and the patio door is open to the back yard. Working at the dining room table doesn’t separate me from this little sanctuary of ours; it plops me right into the middle of it. The office happened because I needed a place where I could shut the door sometimes to write. And it has served me well. But now that there are no kids living here, I don’t need the door as much. There is a lot of quiet time – mornings with birds chirping right outside, Finn asleep on the floor, Mick watering new seedlings in the garden. I turn on the local jazz station, brew some tea, and go to work. It’s all I need on these summery mornings.

But I know I can do this in other places. Mick and I have no idea if this home is permanent or if we’ll be somewhere else in ten years. We live as if it is permanent, caring for this space and allowing it to be a buffer between us and a less peaceful life. Permanence is an illusion. Planning doesn’t save us from everything. And that’s okay. 

For now, I am grateful that this is the space I live in. I do not need more.

Finn would agree.