Today, I am reminded. Of the present LOVE that is a gift from our four legged family members. I had just done what Kaela describes here… I had admonished “Move!” to my Charlie, a three year old bundle of everything, so this heartfelt post from Kaela Bechtelar was especially meaningful and poignant.
The present, let’s be IN it, witnessing and joyful. Attentive. In gratitude. These are choices….
From Kaela Bechtelar (found on Facebook)
“Last Thursday, I committed a small, quiet sin. It didn’t happen in a lawyer’s office or during a blowout argument with a neighbor. It happened in the heart of my home, and the victim was the only creature on this planet who has ever given me nothing but grace.
My name is Elena. I’m 54 years old, living in the outskirts of Seattle. Like most people I know, I am bone-deep weary. I’m a member of that “accordion generation”—squeezed between the needs of my elderly parents and the struggles of my adult children navigating a brutal housing market, all while tethered to a project management job that treats “off-hours” like a suggestion.
My life is a frantic blur of Slack pings, grocery price hikes, and a humming anxiety that seems to be the soundtrack of modern life. We are a society obsessed with the “next”—the next promotion, the next task, the next notification.
And then, there is Buster.
Buster is a Lab mix. He is fifteen years old. In dog years, he’s a centenarian watching the sunset.
His joints are stiff. His fur, once a deep, glossy charcoal, is now the color of a winter fog. He spends twenty hours a day dreaming on his orthopedic bed. When he does move, his claws clack against the linoleum—a slow, steady metronome reminding me that his time is a dwindling resource.
Years ago, he was a streak of lightning. When my kids were little, he’d greet me with a spinning dance that could knock the wind out of you. He was pure, unadulterated energy.
Now, when I turn the deadbolt, there is no dancing. There is only the soft, heavy thud of his tail hitting the carpet from across the room. He lifts a greying muzzle. His clouded eyes track my movement. He waits for me to bridge the distance.
Last Thursday, the rain was coming down in that grey, unrelenting Pacific Northwest way. I was struggling with four heavy bags of groceries—bags that felt far too light for the $220 they cost me. My phone was vibrating against my hip. My director was asking for a spreadsheet I was certain I’d finished at noon.
I shouldered the door shut, shivering as the damp air hit my neck, my nerves frayed to a breaking point.
I turned toward the island to dump the bags, and there he was. Buster.
He had hauled himself up to meet me. He was standing right in my path, his tail moving in a slow, rhythmic arc. Thump. Thump. Thump.
He just wanted to say hello. He just wanted to catch the scent of the outdoors on my sweater.
But I nearly tripped over him. The eggs teetered in my grip. The phone buzzed again.
And I snapped.
“Buster, move! For heaven’s sake, get out of the way! I don’t have time for this!”
The words were sharp, jagged glass.
He didn’t yelp. He didn’t hide. He’s lived with me too long for that, and his heart is too open. Instead, he just… stopped.
He froze mid-wag. His velvet ears drooped. His tail went still. He looked at me with those deep, amber eyes, and the sheer bewilderment in them shattered me.
He wasn’t afraid. He was wounded.
His look said: I only wanted to be near you. Why is that a problem?
The silence that followed was deafening.
In that heartbeat, the illusion of my “urgent, busy life” fell away.
I let the bags drop onto the counter. I ignored the vibrating phone. I looked at this soul who has seen me through a career change, a painful separation, and the day my youngest moved three states away.
I looked at his silver face. I noticed how his hind legs wavered slightly from the simple effort of standing up to welcome me home.
I realized a devastating truth: He wasn’t “in my way.” I was in his.
I was standing in the way of the only thing that actually matters.
We pride ourselves on the “hustle.” we wear our stress like a medal. But Buster? He doesn’t care about my LinkedIn profile. He doesn’t care if the dishes are soaking in the sink. He doesn’t care about my title or my productivity metrics.
He just wants me.
I dropped to my knees on the cold floor, still in my damp coat.
“I’m sorry, boy,” I whispered, burying my face in his neck. “I am so sorry.”
Buster didn’t hold a grudge. Humans keep scores; we nurture our bitterness. Dogs offer forgiveness before the offense is even finished.
He leaned his entire weight against my chest, a heavy, warm anchor. He rested his chin on my shoulder and let out a long, shuddering sigh. It was the sound of peace. He was taking my chaotic, jagged day and smoothing it out with nothing but his heartbeat.
That night, watching the rain streak the windows, I made a new set of rules. They aren’t about career growth or fitness goals.
I realized that Buster lives in a dimension I’ve forgotten: The Present.
He doesn’t wait for the weekend to be happy. He doesn’t wait for a “clear schedule” to show affection. For him, every second I am present is the greatest second of his life.
So, I started a “Buster List”:
When he nudges my elbow while I’m on a call: I will stop. The email will exist in five minutes. His need for a pat on the head is fleeting.
When he wants to sniff the same patch of dirt for five minutes: I won’t pull the leash. I won’t check my messages. I will stand there and let him explore. He is experiencing a world of stories I am too dull to perceive.
When he rests his head on my foot: I will stay still. Even if my leg cramps. Even if I want to get up. I will be his steady ground.
When he looks at me: I will look back. Truly. Not over the top of a screen. I will look into the eyes that have watched me grow older, and I will make sure he knows he is the center of my world.
We like to think we are the providers. We buy the kibble, the toys, the expensive vet visits.
But the truth is, they are the ones sustaining us.
They tether us to the earth when the world tries to spin us off into space. They remind us that devotion isn’t a contract; it’s a breath.
One day, much sooner than I am ready for, the sound of those nails on the floor will vanish. One day, the spot on the rug will be empty and still. One day, I will walk through that door with groceries, and the house will be hauntingly, perfectly quiet.
And I know, without a shadow of a doubt, I would give every cent I have just to trip over him one more time.
The Lesson
If you have a dog waiting at the door tonight, or a cat curled on your pillow, please listen.
Put the phone down. Turn off the news. Let the chores wait for an hour.
Get down on their level.
In a world that screams at us to be more, do more, and have more—our pets are whispering the only truth worth knowing:
You are here. I am here. This is enough.
Their time is a flicker. But their love? That is the only thing that lasts forever.
Don’t wait until the house is quiet to realize they were the loudest, best part of your life.“
Thank you Kaela for the reminder of the lesson of presence, and the preciousness of this big LOVE.
