How to Live More Like a Dog

What if your dog isn’t just your best friend, but the most emotionally intelligent creature in your house?
This is a love letter to presence, peculiar habits, and the art of paying attention.

Dogs don’t try to manifest their dream life or chase inbox zero.
They don’t make vision boards, track screen time, or optimise their mornings.
They don’t attend self-worth workshops, or wonder if they’re doing enough.
They don’t do breathwork or green juice or cold plunges.
(TBH it must be exhausting being so emotionally stable all the time)

They don’t need to. Dogs arrive whole.
Unapologetic and unbothered by who they should be.
They accept themselves completely, and us, too.
No performance. No pretending. Just presence.
(Imagine not needing a single self-help podcast? Wild.)

And maybe that’s the lesson:
We were whole, too, before we started forgetting.
Dogs don’t teach us how to become someone new.
They remind us who we already are.
Before the shadow work, the gluten guilt, and the burnout we called ambition.

No overthinking. No next meeting. No shame spirals.
Just the raw, radiant truth of this exact second.

At Chommies, we believe dogs aren’t just companions. 
They’re teachers.
They remind us what it means to really be here:
To let beauty interrupt us, even if we’re late.
To follow joy without needing a reason.
To listen with our whole bodies, not just our ears, but our attention too.
To pause in a patch of sun, a quiet corner, or a moment of stillness, and call it enough.

Dogs don’t rush the day. They let it unfold. 
And in doing so, they invite us to do the same.
They offer us a portal…not out of life, but deeper into it.

So let’s return the favour.
Let’s care for our companions with the same devotion they show us.

Care is looking closely.
It’s meeting their energy, not just managing it.
It’s not just showing up, it’s tuning in.
It’s real, attentive, thoughtful presence.
It’s knowing when something’s off, and being the one they trust to notice.

And sometimes, it’s as simple as the walk.
Not rushed. Not skipped. Not always on your terms.
Because walking your dog isn’t a task, it’s a ritual. A language. A love letter.
They don’t just stretch their legs, they stretch their minds.
Let them wander. Let them lead.
Sniffing isn’t distraction, it’s decoding.
(Yes, even if it’s the same tree they sniffed yesterday. And the day before.)

And don’t underestimate how deeply they feel your absence, and your tension.
They smell cortisol. They hear your sigh before you know you’ve exhaled.
(They know you need therapy before you do.)



When you’re distracted, they feel it.
When you’re gentle, they bloom.
(So maybe don’t take that Zoom call mid-walk, Karen.)
If they act out, don’t rush to discipline. Ask: What are they trying to say?

This is connection.
Not loud. Not performative.
But real.
It lives in rhythm. In routine. 
In knowing and being known.

Dogs don’t care who you’re trying to be. 
They love who you already are.
Messy. Moody. Flawed.
And somehow still perfect in their eyes.

So this is the invitation:
Put your phone down. Let the leash tug you into the present. 
Say yes to the walk.

Love me. Walk me. Let’s stay a little longer.
(Even when it’s raining. Especially then.)

Let yourself be loved without condition.
Let yourself give love that way too.
Slow down. Look up. Come home to your senses.

We’ll meet you there.