A few years ago, we opened our home to an elderly friend’s dog for a few weeks while they weren’t well enough to care for him. That part isn’t really the point — the point is Rollo.

Rollo is a dog who seems convinced he’s five times bigger than he actually is. He’s enthusiastic in a way that feels limitless. A five-kilometre walk doesn’t even take the edge off. And the entire time — every step — he notices everything.

He barks at dogs across the street. At people. At leaves. He pulls to investigate smells I can’t see. He stops constantly. He listens. He looks. He tries, unsuccessfully, to chase squirrels with great determination.

For someone who doesn’t have a dog, it was a short, intense lesson in how a dog moves through the world.

Later, my therapist says something that stays with me: to be truly present, you have to be in the moment — almost like a dog. Seeing. Hearing. Smelling. Taking it all in. That landed for me because of Rollo.

Presence isn’t about clearing your mind or getting it “right.” It’s about letting the world come toward you instead of rushing past it — looking up, pausing, being curious about what’s right here, even if it slows you down. Especially if it slows you down.

Sometimes, when everything feels noisy or rushed, I don’t ask myself what I need to do. I ask: What would Rollo notice right now?

–Celeste