My Dog the Teacher

What an ordinary walk revealed about the way we live.

The other morning I was out walking the dogs. Phoebe, the youngest one, and Daisy, our older dog, each had their own way of meeting the morning.

I had work to get to and, although I wasn't rushing, my mind had already begun moving into the day ahead. There were things to do, people to see and, without really noticing it, I had fallen into the rhythm of what came next.

Phoebe stopped every few steps to sniff. Not just a quick sniff before moving on, but a long, unhurried exploration of a scent that seemed to deserve her complete attention.

Daisy would often pause too. She'd wander over to see what Phoebe had found, have a brief sniff herself, then quietly carry on with her walk. Every so often she'd look back, just to make sure we were still there, before happily continuing on her way. She does that.

Phoebe was different. She loved getting completely involved in whatever had captured her attention, as though nothing else in the world existed for those few moments.

At first, I found myself gently encouraging her along. We had a walk to finish, after all.

Then, after one of her many stops, something changed.

Instead of encouraging her to move on, I stopped too.

I found myself wondering what it was she had found that was so fascinating. I couldn't tell you. I don't have her nose. Whatever she was sensing belonged entirely to her world, not mine.

But as I stood there waiting, something else happened.

The pause was long enough to change my rhythm.

I stopped thinking about the day ahead and found myself simply staying with what was happening. I wasn't interested in the scent itself; I found myself enjoying that Phoebe was. She took such delight in exploring it, as though it was the most important thing in the world.

Watching them, I realised neither of them was trying to slow life down. They weren't trying to notice more. They weren't trying to be present.

They were simply being completely where they already were.

As we carried on walking, it struck me that nothing remarkable had actually happened. Phoebe had eventually finished sniffing, Daisy had wandered on as she always does, and the walk simply continued. Yet something had changed, and it stayed with me long after we got home.

It wasn't that I'd suddenly become more relaxed, or discovered something hidden in the grass alongside Phoebe. I still have no idea what had captured her attention so completely. What stayed with me was the realisation that, for those few moments, my own rhythm had changed. I had stopped living in the next part of the day and quietly returned to the part I was already in.

As I thought more about it, I found myself wondering whether we sometimes approach practice in the same way we approach everything else. We try to fit it in. Another thing to remember. Another thing to do. Another item on an already full day.

I wonder how that has worked out for you.

I know I've spent many years trying to fit things in. But that is another story.

The moments that have stayed with me most over the years haven't usually come because I squeezed another practice into my day. They've arrived unexpectedly while walking the dogs, making a cup of tea, sitting quietly after a conversation, or simply noticing something I would normally have hurried past.

A few days later, Dr Damian Kissey, a fellow senior instructor in our Shaolin Wahnam school, reminded me of something our teacher, Grandmaster Wong Kiew Kit, often spoke about. He called it Informal Chi Kung—those ordinary moments when the qualities we cultivate during formal practice begin accompanying us through everyday life. It made me smile because our recent conversations about Mini Moments of Mindfulness seem to be exploring much the same thing.

The invitation isn't to find more time. It's to notice the life that is already unfolding around us. Sometimes all it takes is a young dog becoming completely absorbed in a scent that I couldn't even smell, and a pause that is long enough to change my rhythm.

As I walked home, I realised I hadn't really been teaching the dogs anything that morning.

They had been teaching me.

Not through words or techniques, but simply by being completely themselves.

I still don't know what Phoebe found so fascinating that day.

I don't need to.

The pause was enough.