Your Dog Doesn't Care That You Had a Bad Day

My pug, Penelope, turned five years old this past February. I first met Penelope, commonly referred to as Penny (or a myriad of other endearing names), as I was getting picked up from the airport in San Antonio in April of 2018, fresh off the San Antonio Brass Band winning the First Section of the North American Brass Band Association Championships in Fort Wayne, Indiana.

I had grown up around dogs, but this was the first dog that was ours amongst my then fiancée (now wife) and me. Penny, who was about 2 pounds if that, didn’t care that I had just been part of a winning brass band effort; she was just excited to be around an additional person.

The months that followed were not easy for me. As the youngest of three, I have a selfish streak, and I’ll be the first to admit it. The care needed for this creature that couldn’t look after itself taught me a lot, and honestly, I wasn’t great at being a father figure for even a dog at first. Penny was always quick to forgive, however, and over time I matured some and really fell in love with her snorts, tails wags, and seemingly endless energy. If you’ve known me over the past five years, you assuredly know me in some part for always mentioning my pug.

If you have a dog now or ever had a dog in your life, you can likely attest that no one is as happy to see you each day as that animal.

Best day of your life? “Alright, let’s party!!”

Worst day ever? “OMG you’re home!! This is the greatest thing ever!!”

That dog’s love for you and forgiveness is second to only The Divine, but why is that important?

I say all of this because I often think about my relationship with myself and how it relates to my art. How many days have I thought, “Alright, let’s party!!” after a great performance or productive day in the practice room, but failed to show myself the same love on a day where things went horribly, or I couldn’t manage to make the strides I had planned to? So many of those days where I didn’t measure up, I made up for it by just mentally bashing myself over the head with critical self-talk that did nothing but make moving forward more difficult.

What was Penny doing in those moments, you ask? She was ready for me to throw her favorite toy or to fall asleep while pushing her body weight into my ribs. She just wanted to love and feel love in return. What about when I allowed the frustrations of my day to spill over, and I snapped at her for deciding to smell every lamp post in the neighborhood? The second I realize I’ve crossed a line, she forgives me instantly; my transgressions become ancient history at once.

While I feel strongly that Penny is a special dog, I believe that this quality is seen often amongst other dogs. It does make me wonder, though, how much further along our pursuits would be if we showed ourselves this type of love and forgiveness. If instead of looking back at every regrettable note in a performance, you were just to relish in the beauty of you being an artist in a world of so many people that could only wish to make art, wouldn’t the journey seem a little sweeter?

Objectively, I know we’d better off showing ourselves the same kind of love that a dog shows their caretaker, but that doesn’t mean that I’m there yet. I still lament lost moments where I fail to live up to the voice in my musical mind, whether it be because of nerves, fatigue, or just a slip in concentration. However, because of my dog, I honestly have a clearer image of how I should treat myself daily, and that is to forgive quickly and love unconditionally. I hope in your artistic journey, you may learn to do the same.