Oso’s Lesson

Oso tripped me. On purpose.

At least, that's what I've decided.

I was in the pasture with some Hipcamp guests, introducing them to the animals.

I love sharing the animals with people, especially children. Oh, to teach children to love and respect animals—that is such a goal of mine.

There were four adults and three children with me that day, and Oso was doing what Oso does.

All 150 pounds of giant puppy was making the rounds.

A sniff here.

A little push there.

A butt sniff.

He's a dog, after all.

One of the children, a little boy I'd guess was about seven, wasn't comfortable with Oso.

He was scared.

And he told his dad he was scared.

His dad responded, “Oh, don't worry. He's just a puppy.”

Well.

Obviously the little boy didn't think a 150-pound puppy was nothing to worry about.

I watched the interaction and immediately thought:

Oh, that poor child. He isn't being seen or heard.

And then came the incident.

Not his.

Mine.

All 150 Pounds of Oso

I was standing beside Oso near a step down into the pasture when he stepped on my foot.

At the exact moment I started moving forward, Oso—while still standing on my foot—stepped directly in front of me.

You can probably see where this is going.

My foot couldn't move.

Oso was in front of me.

I was already moving forward.

And suddenly everything seemed to happen in slow motion as I watched myself lean...

and lean...

and then fall right off the step onto the gravel.

In front of seven strangers.

Yay!

That was fun.

Okay, not really.

I was mostly grateful I had long pants on so nobody could see the blood running down my leg from the cut on my knee.

Once everyone had left and I had a chance to think about what had happened, I wondered:

What was Oso teaching me?

What Was That About?

Through my communication with animals, I've come to believe they're teaching us all the time.

Not every interaction contains some enormous, life-changing revelation.

Sometimes it's simply a reminder.

A nudge.

An invitation to notice something we've been avoiding.

But Oso had just planted all 150 pounds of himself exactly where necessary to send me tumbling into the gravel.

And I was bleeding afterward.

That felt like a fairly substantial nudge.

So I sat with it.

And I kept coming back to the little boy.

He Was Scared

That little boy had said exactly what he was feeling.

I'm scared.

He didn't need to be told there was nothing to be afraid of.

Because there was.

To him.

His fear was real.

He needed a little time.

Some understanding.

Someone to acknowledge what he was feeling.

He needed to be witnessed.

And watching him brought something up in me.

Because I needed that when I was little, too.

My feelings weren't acknowledged by my parents.

I didn't feel seen.

And somewhere along the way, I learned what so many of us learn:

Push the feeling down.

Tell yourself everything is okay.

Keep going.

Except sometimes everything isn't okay.

And sometimes the little person inside us is still waiting for somebody to finally say:

I see you.

Oso Made Me Stop

And then I understood what Oso had done for me.

He made me stop.

Literally.

There would be no walking right past this one.

There I was on the ground with a bloody knee because a giant puppy had physically stopped me in my tracks.

Oso had seen something happening inside me before I had fully recognized it myself.

Watching that little boy had touched something old.

Something familiar.

And instead of doing what I'd learned to do—brush it aside and keep moving—Oso gave me a reason to stop.

To listen.

To acknowledge what I was feeling.

That little girl inside me needed someone to see her.

Oso did.

You May Be Wondering…

Are our animals really teaching us through ordinary moments like this?

I believe they are.

That doesn't mean every time your dog steps on your foot you need to sit down and search for the spiritual significance.

Sometimes your dog just stepped on your foot.

But I've learned to become curious when something stops me.

When an interaction with an animal stays with me.

When I keep thinking about it long after the moment has passed.

Instead of immediately dismissing it, I ask:

What did that bring up in me?

Why am I still thinking about it?

Is there something here I'm being asked to notice?

That day, Oso's lesson wasn't really about falling.

It was about being seen.

A little boy needed his fear acknowledged.

A little girl inside me needed the same thing.

And apparently my enormous, goofy puppy decided I wasn't going to walk another step until I paid attention.

Oso made me stop.

Oso saw me.

And he reminded me that the little girl inside me deserves to be seen, too.

I love that big goofy puppy boy.

He sees me.

And I need that.

May you see the world through the eyes of love, remembering that we are all part of one living, sacred whole.