what my dog thinks about the outside world

it's like you're my mirror

My senses are piqued, in a flow state, when I’m outside.

While indoors I must abide by the rules of my family. But outside, the rule is survival. And to survive, I must protect myself first, my family second, and my ego third. Nothing else matters.

I crave the outdoors for reasons I cannot explain. It gives me anxiety, but maybe that’s just part of who I am. There was a brief stint in my life when I was homeless. Don’t get me wrong, I prefer the cushy life I have now—warm laps, soft beds, dinner at 5. But there was peace in the solitude that came from my time alone in the darkness. A kind of clarity only a dog on the street understands.

Apparently, humans rely on their eyes more than any other sense. That seems silly to me. Why limit yourself to what’s directly in front of you? I prefer scent and sound because they’re full-body senses. At times I can feel my body wrapped by information and stimulation. When I step outside, the smells and sounds I had been monitoring indoors become clarified. They’re alive, sharp, real.

The sound of my steps grounds me; the clicking is the cadence by which I survey the outdoors. I walk with purpose. I choose the path. Still, the leash humbles me. So does my emasculation. I can’t hunt, I can’t reproduce. So I do the next best thing: take a steaming shit on fresh grass.

It’s spiritual, really. I identify a worthy square foot of dewy lawn, circle clockwise once, counterclockwise twice, acknowledging its imperfections before letting it rip.

At this point, I know the neighborhood. Cats under cars. Skunks after dark. Condescending squirrels. Cocky crows. I take their stillness as caution, movement as threat, and absence as an invitation to savor the moment.

The outside world is chaos, but it’s honest. When I return home with my tail high, paws dirty, and butthole slightly poopy, I feel a sense of accomplishment.

I went out there. I saw it all. And I came back, more alive than I’ve ever felt before.