North Star Writers Group

This column is dedicated to my beloved dog Breakers, for whom we recently had to find a new home because of our baby son’s severe allergy to him. Of course, Breakers won’t be reading the column like he usually does. He’ll be too busy getting to know his new family.

Sometimes, when I’m having one of those days at work – those days when I feel underappreciated, overworked and just generally stressed out – I think to myself, “What would Breakers do?”

Breakers is my three-year-old dog, who still thinks and acts much like a new puppy. His approach to life is exactly what those bad days need! And while I don’t plan to grab a hold of any of my coworkers’ pant legs with my teeth, I must admit, some of his tactics would be fun to try.

For one thing, when he wants all of the love and attention we can give, and isn’t in the mood to share us with the cat, he simply chases her out of the room.

I like this strategy. It’s his “You, exit!” strategy. I think it would be a great one to use on that person who’s perpetually 15 minutes late to a meeting, and then disrupts the whole discussion, taking it into new and unwanted directions. I can just picture myself pouncing towards him, chasing down the hall, until he’s simply left with nowhere to go but atop the refrigerator in the employee break room. There, he’ll be forced to hover until I’m ready for him to come down.

I also think his style of unbridled enthusiasm would do me some good at the office. You see, Breakers does not discriminate when it comes to his love and affection. If you walk into our house, and my husband and I greet you in a friendly manner, that’s all he needs to know it’s OK to kiss you and ask for a belly rub.

If only I could muster that type of excitement for everyone. I like my boss and my coworkers, to be sure. But on bad days, it’s tough to smile, welcome more work, and show appreciation for everyone who enters my office. While I won’t ask them to pat my belly, I’m thinking I could at least work on the smiling thing.

Breakers also has a knack for knowing just when I need a break. When I take him running with me, he always finds a tree trunk, fire hydrant or fence that’s a “must sniff” just as I’m running out of breath. I don’t know how he does it. We’ll pass 20-30 tree trunks and he’ll barely slow down. It’s like he’s in sync with my heart and lungs.

If I were as much in sync with my brain, and when it needed a break, I’m guessing I could be more effective in my job overall. But instead, I have a tendency – as I think most of us do – to push myself to get even more done, cross that one last phone call off my list or write that one last progress report.

I could go farther if I’d just stop at the right fire hydrants.

Finally, Breakers was always the only other welcome participant in “me time.” He totally understood what that meant. It didn’t mean bursting into the bathroom in the middle of my bath with, “Honey, have you seen my belt?” or “Here, the phone’s for you” while I was attempting to get in the guilty pleasure of reading just one more chapter.

No, not Breakers. He would just lay there in silence, enjoying my me time as much as I did – right along with me. I could pet him if I wanted to, but he didn’t mind if I didn’t. He just wanted me to know he was there if he needed me.

I think I’d be a better mentor to some of the young, talented folks with whom I’ve worked over the years if I did exactly that – not interrupted them; let them have time to create, think and simply “be” instead of wondering about the status of every single project.

Instead, I’d just be lying there, waiting for them to get up, and take me along their journey with them. I might pull at the leash a little bit in attempt to lead, but for the most part, I’d be in step with them, working side by side to get to the lush, green park.

I always joked about Breakers being the “dumb jock” in our family – who leapt before looking, as evidenced by him falling into our friends’ pool on several occasions. But dogs are smarter than we give them credit for. Not always so for workers like you and me.

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This is Column # CD038. Request permission to publish here.