Days of Understanding

Quiet moments that remind us what dogs have been saying all along.

I may hold the pen, but they hold the wisdom.

Each pause, each glance, each breath

becomes a quiet translation of what they’ve been expressing

a reminder that when we listen with all our senses,

the conversation is already happening.

The words begin with the dogs.

I try to listen enough to translate.

The Moment

It was a hot day.

The kind where the air hums and every breath feels heavy.

Duma wandered, sniffed, stayed close.

Then he stopped.

He looked at the ground.

Then at me.

He didn’t lie down.

He didn’t move on.

He waited.

And something in the space between us shifted.

He was communicating.

I laid a towel down.

He curled into it instantly.

Because it was understood.

Sometimes understanding looks like nothing

but it means everything.

The Quiet Truth

It was about comfort.

But more than that, it was about recognition.

He had spoken with his posture, his stillness, his eyes.

He had a need, and when a need is met with presence,

the space between two beings softens.

The air lightened.

The moment breathed.

What was noticed was what had already been said.

The Next Day

Another pause.

Another silence.

Duma’s nose traced invisible threads through the grass.

He glanced toward me.

I felt the invitation.

We began a scent game in the hush of the forest.

His rhythm changed.

His body softened.

Something inside both of us did, too.

Because he had been asking.

And this time I understood.

What Trust Can Be

Safety and control often live close together.

We have built systems that hold both

A leash.

A cue.

A stay.

These things can offer grounding.

Sometimes a dog needs that anchor,

a clear signal that the world won’t collapse.

But trust also lives where curiosity and hesitation meet.

One often calls the other forward.

Curiosity says, I want to explore.

Hesitation answers, stay near while I do.

Each asks for a different kind of trust

one that moves with freedom,

and one that holds through uncertainty.

With shelter dogs, this dance is constant.

Stress keeps them suspended between reaching and retreating.

When met with presence, steady, unhurried, aware,

a body begins to remember how to choose again.

Other times, trust grows in the stillness between actions,

from a shared breath,

from the quiet rhythm that says,

you are free to be, and I will stay near.

That day with Duma, I didn’t manage his choice.

I shared it.

And in that quiet exchange, something changed shape

from situation to relationship,

from compliance to connection.

This is what Remidi holds,

not the absence of structure,

but the presence of understanding.

A space where safety becomes a bridge, not a lever.

How Dogs Speak

Dogs do not live in silence.

They speak through bodies, through breath,

through the small movements that hold meaning.

They know what they need.

They move toward it.

They wait for us to meet them there.

It is not confusion that separates us.

It is noise.

What Remains

Dogs do not speak human.

We do not speak dog.

So we learn to understand each other.

Every pause, every breath, every glance

is now part of language

not taught, not trained

but shared and remembered.

That moment with the towel still echoes.

A quiet reminder

that understanding doesn’t always arrive through knowing

but also through the willingness to listen,

even before understanding arrives.