The One Dog Who Taught Me to Slow Down
We don’t always recognize our greatest teachers when they arrive—sometimes, they’re small, quiet, and a little timid. For me, that teacher was Cleo.
Cleo was a petite Basenji with a lean build, springy gait, and soft brown eyes that always seemed to be watching, waiting. She had a chronic illness called Fanconi syndrome, a disease that, at the time, rarely let dogs live past seven or eight years. But Cleo lived to be 14.
She didn’t live loudly. She lived gently. And in doing so, she changed my life.
Back then, I was a full-time veterinarian, a business owner, and a mother of three toddlers. The pace of my life wasn’t just fast—it was relentless. I moved from exam rooms to operating tables to soccer practices and dinner prep like I was on a speedway. Sitting down wasn’t a luxury. It was a foreign concept.
Then Danielle Mackinnon walked into my clinic.
She brought her dog for an appointment, and after we chatted briefly, she told me she was an “animal communicator.” I had never heard of such a thing. My first thought was skepticism. My second was curiosity.
Danielle offered me a free session. “Just let me do a reading for your animals,” she said. I figured it couldn’t hurt—and truthfully, I was intrigued.
Later that week, after finishing a full day of appointments, I sat in my office and called her. She asked for the names of my animals, and then she was off. No prompting, no clues—just story after story about pets from my childhood, ones I hadn’t thought about in years. It was emotional, uncanny, and unsettling in the best way.
Then she brought up Cleo.
“She wants you to sit down,” Danielle said.
I laughed nervously. “Sit down?”
“She says you’re nervous. Frantic. You never stop moving. She’d really like it if you would slow down and just… sit with her.”
At first, I dismissed it. It felt too abstract, too out-there for my science-trained mind. But then something clicked.
Cleo had this nightly ritual: she would take a bone treat—one of those chewy, doughy ones—and bury it in the couch cushions. Every night. And every night, I’d roll my eyes, walk over, and fish it out, annoyed that she kept doing it.
But what if that was her invitation?
The next evening, when Cleo buried her bone in the couch, I didn’t remove it. I sat down beside her. I took a breath. I stayed.
She climbed onto the couch, leaned against me, and exhaled. She seemed... peaceful. At ease in a way I hadn’t seen before. Not nervous. Not timid. Just present.
So I did it again the next night. And the night after that.
It became our ritual. Bone. Couch. Stillness.
Eventually, my daughters started joining us. It was just ten minutes, sometimes less—but those moments became sacred. My veterinary world was full of motion, but this… this was different. This was connection. This was presence.
Danielle once told me that our pets are here to teach us. That their purpose is often to help us become better versions of ourselves—if we’re willing to listen.
I believe her now.
Cleo taught me the value of stillness. That love doesn’t always shout. Sometimes, it simply places a bone in the couch and waits for you to understand what it means.
If I hadn’t listened, I would’ve missed that lesson completely.
Years have passed, but I still think of Cleo every time I slow down and sit beside one of my pets—or one of my daughters. I think of her when I look into the eyes of a quiet animal in an exam room. I wonder what they’re trying to say.
Cleo reminded me that healing isn’t always about doing. Sometimes it’s about being.
And I’m still learning.
