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In the afternoons, I try to walk my Corgi-Jack Russell, Hank. Although, in the past year, we do less walking than standing and breathing. Hank walks a few feet. Then he stops. He looks into the distance, enjoying the afternoon breeze on his face. If a car drives by, he focuses his attention on it from the time it comes into his view to the time it leaves. He smells each blade of grass and watches a lone leaf blow across the pavement. Even if we gain some momentum, he brusquely stops in his tracks to stare at anyone who becomes visible, be it a neighbor, delivery driver, or lawn gnome.
Sometimes when Hank stops and stares, I stop and seethe. Irritation bubbles in my chest. “Come on, Hank,” I say in a voice he and I both know is fake-nice, “Let’s go!” Sometimes I lower my octave in an attempt to sound more commanding—and to determine whether Hank is a secret misogynist, as I’ve often suspected. I avoid eye contact with passers by and pretend to be on my phone instead of desperately pleading with a 24-pound animal to follow my lead—thinking it’s better to look distracted than incompetent.
I’ve exhausted many options, including reading numerous articles by dog trainers, scouring YouTube videos and Instagram reels by more dog trainers, borrowing an acquaintance’s Disney Plus sign-in to binge-watch the Dog Whisperer, consulting three different veterinarians, and carrying a small, open baggie of cooked ground beef to waft its smell in front of Hank’s face and entice him to follow me. Nothing has worked.
At times, I’ve felt that somehow Hank’s stillness is a reflection of my deficiency as an owner, a caretaker, a companion. I’ve imagined witnesses saying, “She really doesn’t deserve a dog if she doesn’t know how to train him.” (They probably haven’t.)
Coming to terms with the fact that my dog doesn’t want to walk, I’ve spent endless time reeling: Why can’t I fix this problem?
The Turning Point
During a period of peak frustration with the Hank-not-walking debacle, I attended a yoga class. I followed the teacher’s words, cue for cue, despite the fact that my wrists hurt, my arms were shaking, and I was freaking tired of Sun Salutations. In between gasping for air and trying to look cool, I recognized a fellow student. She was sitting in Easy Pose. As everyone around her flung into Chaturanga (some while grunting Serena Williams-style), she remained seated and seemingly unfazed.
Although we’d never spoken, this student is one of the most athletically gifted people at our studio, the traces of her biceps and quads showing through her Lululemon, Alo, or some other trendy ware. Any time she’d put her mat behind mine in class, I’d find myself working a little harder to be (or appear) “better” at yoga. And if she’d practice in front of me, I’d still push myself to keep up with her—doing the optional arm balance and going for the Splits. But that particular day, she sat in Easy Pose for most of the class. And that was it.
If moments can change your brain chemistry (as people on Instagram claim they can), this one shifted mine. Seeing this person I associate with strength and power opt to do something so easy made me wonder why I didn’t let myself do the same. I gently lowered myself into Child’s Pose. In the stillness, I could appreciate the class so much more (even the grunting) because I was comfortable. I had a moment to myself, sensing everyone’s movements around me, though not participating in them myself.
Lying in Savasana at the end of class, I realized that if I can take the pressure off of myself to move so quickly, conform, and perform, I can do the same for Hank.
How Mindfulness Changed How I Walk My Dog
Hank and I still walk, but mostly stand and breathe. I had become so frustrated that I couldn’t make my notion of a normal dog walk happen. But really, my vision for a “normal” dog walk existed only in my head. Going from desperately wanting to change the situation to acceptance and even appreciation of it has taught me:
It’s Okay to Just Be
Standing with Hank teaches me more than walking him does. It feels a lot like meditation. At first, my thoughts ping around in my head. I think about all the things I need to get back to at home instead of watching Hank sniff grass. But then, I try to lean into the discomfort. While he sniffs, I take a moment, feel the wind on my face, smell the air, and breathe. When I let myself be, I can set aside any expectations for how long each pause “should” last.
Dogs Are Mindfulness Experts
Some of my frustration with walking Hank may stem from jealousy. Seriously, though. He lives in the moment. He’s not plagued by social anxiety every time a person walks by us. Everything grabs his attention because he’s not ranking the importance of his experiences. He takes it all in, and in a few minutes, lets everything go.
Resistance Obscures the Truth
I was so immersed in my own frustration that I didn’t realize I lacked the facts. It wasn’t until I gave up my “get Hank to walk” agenda that information started popping up unexpectedly—articles on the benefits of sniff walks for dogs—supporting what Hank and I had been doing all along. (And, yes, sniff walks are a form of exercise!)
Some Discomfort Is Necessary for Change
Waiting for Hank to be ready to walk feels like practicing Revolved Chair Pose: uncomfortable and infuriating, but rewarding when it’s over. For the rest of the day, I swear he smiles. He’s proud of himself for getting out of the house, checking on the neighborhood, and experiencing the world around him.
Despite the beautiful takeaways and metaphors, sometimes our walks are still really annoying. The most important thing I’ve learned is that that’s okay, too.
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