To the Man With the Yellow Dog.

I’m writing this from a coffee shop. In the line of customers next to me, there’s a man with a dog. The dog is a handsome yellow fellow, and he’s standing next to his owner, panting, tail a-wag, taking it all in. He’s alert but calm. Seems like a friendly chap.

A well-behaved dog is a joy. A poorly-behaved dog is a nightmare. Have you ever been to the home of someone who is utterly dominated by their own pet? It’s weird and perverse. My own dog, Patch, bless him, is by no means the picture of obedience. He stole half a pizza off the countertop two nights ago. But he’s friendly, gentle, and sociable. He knows the basic commands and knows them well. When it’s dinnertime, he knows to lay down on his bed and wait for me to give the signal before chowing down.

The unruly dog is one of the first analogies I learned about meditation, and still one of the strongest. Our minds pull and tug like a dog with a scent, and while we don’t control the direction they want to go, we do have a say in whether we indulge their charge. The question is, are you walking your dog, or is your dog walking you?

I think intelligence is just as much about the degree of control we have over our minds as it is about our raw capabilities. Being aware of the present moment, and being able to guide the direction of your thoughts gives us the ability not to get lost in the stream and intentionally direct it towards something productive or peaceful. Something like discernment plus focus plus fortitude. Whatever that is, I’d rather have it than a crazy-high IQ. Besides, when you indulge every little train of thought, you never know what you might be missing.

Here's a small example of me getting tied up in my own thoughts: A few minutes ago, I got up to use the restroom. It was locked. I stood there for a few minutes, then a few minutes more. I began fuming. Who’s in there taking all this time? It’s a public bathroom, hurry it up! I don’t have all day! Instead of investigating further I decided to pull out my phone and scroll Instagram for some jiu-jitsu content or athletic women in sports bras.

Then who should show up behind me, but the man with the dog. As I gave the pooch some pats on the head, the man asked me is someone in there, or do you just need to enter the door code? It's 1983. I froze. I'd been too busy fuming and scrolling to notice the doors were code-operated. I punched it in. It had been empty the whole time.