Not because he dominates me, but because he has liberated me from the illusion that I need to dominate anything at all.
I was wrong.
On our first walk, I attempted to assert my dominance by dictating the route. I wanted to go left, toward the park. Haruharu wanted to go right, toward the drainage ditch filled with the intoxicating scent of raccoon urine. I tugged. He planted his feet. I pulled harder. He sat down. For ten minutes, we engaged in a silent war of attrition on a suburban sidewalk. Neighbors stared. A mailman laughed. My Dog- My Master 04 Haruharu
I, on the other hand, am a whirlwind of worry and ambition. I am the student, still learning to sit, still learning to stay, still learning that the present moment is the only moment that exists.
This is not a story about training a pet. This is an account of how a 45-pound bundle of fur and quiet dignity assumed the role of my life coach, my Zen guru, and ultimately, my master. The name “Haruharu” (春春) is Japanese, loosely translating to “spring spring” or a double-helping of renewal and vibrancy. It’s a fitting, almost ironic name for a dog whose primary superpower is stillness. While other dogs chase their tails or bark at squirrels with manic intensity, Haruharu observes. He judges. He forgives. Not because he dominates me, but because he
He reflects my best and worst self back at me without a single word. In that reflection, I have seen my impatience, my vanity, my desperate need for control. And little by little, under his quiet tutelage, I am shedding those layers. So, after four chapters of this ongoing story, who is the master? Technically, I pay for the kibble. I own the leash. My name is on the vet paperwork.
One morning, racing to answer an angry email on my phone, I tripped over Haruharu, who had simply stopped walking to watch a cloud pass overhead. I landed on my palms, my phone skittering into the gutter. Haruharu didn’t flinch. He looked at me, then looked up at the cloud, then back at me. The message was clear: “That email will wait. This cloud will not.” I wanted to go left, toward the park
Dogs do not lie. They do not manipulate. They do not hold grudges. When Haruharu looks at me, I cannot hide my mood. If I am anxious, he presses his head into my lap. If I am sad, he brings me his most ragged, disgusting tennis ball—his greatest treasure. If I am angry, he simply leaves the room, denying me an audience for my tantrum.