We were at the park, and she was quite young, and everything there was more exciting than me. I called to her and she ignored me. The rabbit scent trails, the dropped food-scraps, the squirrels, the lost balls, the other park users, they were much too interesting to leave behind. I was having a bad week and I was tired and I had places to be and the last thing I needed was a stroppy dog wanting five more minutes’ play time when it was time to go home. I called her again and again and still, she didn’t come. Eventually, I found myself standing in the middle of a public space yelling at an animal until my throat hurt. (Who was the embarrassing one in this pairing anyway?)

After a while, I was too tired to shout anymore. I sat on a bench and put my head in my hands. “Come on, please be reasonable.” I moaned, “If you could just stop doing this and come here, I can stop shouting at you and we can enjoy the rest of our walk home.” (She has a very advanced vocabulary). I looked up and there she was, sitting on the grass in front of me, and it hit me.

Everything is better when you speak with love and compassion. That means being patient, not losing your temper, and giving praise when someone tried even if they failed. (And talk to yourself that way too)

How many times in your life have you felt like approaching the furious, screaming lady? And how much more likely would you be to approach the calm, patient parent?

I, of course, still lose my temper and forget this lesson sometimes. But, from that day on, I have tried hard to remember that speaking gently gets a better, quicker response than yelling. It works with small children too. And with yourself.

When I drag my reluctant body out of bed in the morning and force myself to run. And when that run is a fiasco from start to finish (the desire to vomit, the dripping sweat, the point where you’re running up the hill and an old lady with a walking stick casually overtakes you). Those are the times where I could find fault, I could think I should be doing better, but I try not to. I try to feel proud that I made it out to run at all and pushed myself to do more than I thought I could. (Before I collapse onto the floor and pant for half an hour.)

And that’s the other thing I’ve learned:

Nature makes us better. Get outside, every day, no matter what.

Even if it’s pouring with rain. Even if it’s so icy cold it makes your sinuses sting (anyone else get that?). I have never regretted the time I have spent outside in nature, but I have regretted the times I didn’t go out. Even if it was just so Daisy could stick her nose into a hedge. Because that’s her thing. Every morning we walk past the same hedge. Every morning she puts her face into the same gaps, the same rabbit holes, she carefully inspects every piece of litter thrown from passing cars, she gets excited whenever the same sheep or rabbit or neighbourhood cat moves through the branches and makes the leaves shake. Every day this hedge is fascinating. Her tail alters weather systems with the amount it wags and her ears practically vibrate with the sounds they are pricking for. This is the excitement and fascination I would like to approach life with, even if it’s the same hedge I walked past yesterday and every day for the last 9 years.

Because everything is interesting. Take your time. Enjoy the view. Smell the air. Be curious.

And this is something I’ve explored a lot so far on this blog.

Life is not about survival: give time to the things that make your life worth living. You are in control of how you spend your time – choose well.

I was running late. Anyone who knows me IRL will know I’m always running late. The thing is, no matter how much of your life you spend being late, you never really get used to it. At least, I don’t. I hate being late for things; the anxiety and stress it causes sucks. But, I’m just not very good at not being late. Especially when I don’t really want to be wherever it is I’m going. Which was the case that morning. Being late for work would be an uncomfortable experience for everyone (most of all me) but being at work at all was so unpleasant my body seemed to resist the experience at every step of my morning routine.

But now, I was finally ready to go, finally running for the door. And there she was, on the door mat with her big soppy spaniel eyes looking dejectedly at me.

“Oh no Dais, I don’t have time for this!”

And she rolled onto her back and put her little rabbity paws in the air and waited for me to rub her white fluffy belly.

And I thought: what would I wish I had done more of in life when I’m on my death bed?

Because there is no chance I will ever wish I had been more punctual for work. But there is every chance that I would wish I had given more time to connect with the people I love. Whether that’s going for coffee with a friend or babysitting my nephew or rubbing my dog’s belly.

So I rubbed her belly. And she was comforted. And I was very late to work. And, well, we all know how that worked out don’t we?!

But that’s the thing about dogs, they never hesitate before asking for something they want. They never think that it might be better not to ask in case the answer’s no and they have to face rejection. Daisy asked for a belly rub as soon as the thought struck her. Every day, hundreds of times a day, she asks for what she wants. And sometimes the answer is no. But it doesn’t deter her from asking the next time she feels a need. But humans are so frightened of rejection that it often stops us asking, or taking a risk. And it’s not an irrational fear, rejection hurts. But isn’t it worth an occasional rejection for the number of times we might get the thing we’ve asked for?

Fear can unnecessarily stop you having great adventures.

My dog is an anxious little beast. The first time she ever saw a rabbit, she jumped out of her feathery skin and ran behind my legs. She won’t step into water unless she knows she can keep her paws on the bottom. She won’t walk over bridges or up staircases if they have gaps in them (even tiny, tiny gaps that an ant wouldn’t fall through). And she won’t trust a bridge if it’s not at least twice her width (which makes the hundreds of planks over streams we encounter impassable). She doesn’t like the sound of the metal sticks my Mum uses to walk with, or the wheels of her mobility scooter, and she jumps whenever a branch brushes her unexpectedly from behind, or a feather falls through the air in front of her nose. (Oddly though, she’s hard as nails when it comes to loud bangs like fireworks, thunder and gunshots…)

It is my dearest wish that I could one day take her on my paddleboard but, to do that, I’d have to spend a long time helping her over her fear of water (the feel of it, the movement of it and the sound of it) and then get her used to the concept of floating things (she seems to think anything that floats is witchcraft to be barked at and avoided at all costs). But think of the wonderful adventures we could have if she wasn’t afraid of everything!

And then I think about the times I’ve been afraid. Afraid of publishing a blog post for over a decade. Afraid of telling people I wanted to be a writer. Afraid of being single. Afraid of allowing myself the vulnerability of falling in love. Afraid of travelling abroad. Afraid of asking to reduce my hours at work so I could focus on writing. Even afraid of admitting that I’m afraid sometimes.

And how are these fears any more rational than Daisy’s? How many times have they been justified? And how many adventures and opportunities have I missed out on because I was too afraid to even test the water?

So, in nine years, I’ve taught her to understand me (mostly) and how to live alongside me. And she has taught me so, so much more about what it is to live a happy life, and maintain loving, functional relationships and how to provide more than a creature’s basic needs (including my own).

What have you learned from the animals around you?