Dekker, On Wisdom, Worry and The Weight of the World
As I, Dekker, stretch out on a warm rug, I smell an apple pie in the oven and think about this time of year.
Humans call it winter—though the snow hasn’t fully claimed the yard yet.
The days are short, the nights long, and my person burns something that smells of pine and cinnamon.
Lately, I’ve noticed more furrowed brows and fewer belly laughs.
Maybe it’s the season of “too”: too much news, too many expectations, too many lists.
Or maybe it’s that time feels heavier when the light fades early. Whatever it is, I feel it in the air. So do many of you who send me questions.
Question from Marla:
“Dekker, I feel so heavy lately. The world seems angry.
My friends are divided. I try to stay calm,
but I’m losing hope. What can I do?”
Woof Woof, Marla,
I’ve noticed that too. The air feels charged—like right before thunder. Even without words, dogs know when storms are brewing.
When the air smells like rain and people smell like fear, I remember one thing: storms pass. They always do.
But while they last, I look for cover beside someone I trust. Do you have someone whose presence is shelter for you?
I also dig—literally and figuratively. A small hole, a patch of dirt, a walk to the mailbox… anything that connects me to the earth. It helps to touch what is real when so much feels emotional.
When humans bark at each other, they forget they’re all part of one pack.
It happens every season. I wonder… what if everyone paused long enough to sniff the air and remember what they love about being alive?
Question from Eli:
“Dekker, I’m scared about getting older.
I feel like winter is creeping in on my life and I’m not ready.”
Woof Woof, Eli,
Winter doesn’t arrive all at once. It pads in quietly on soft paws. One day you wake up and the trees are bare—but they’re still standing, holding a kind of beauty you didn’t see in summer.
I watch my person bundle up before we go outside. She moves slower now, and I match her pace.
That’s the secret, Eli. Matching the pace. When life grows slower, you don’t fight it—you listen for the rhythm underneath.
Old dogs know this. Our fur grays around the muzzle, our naps grow longer, but our hearts still leap when the leash jingles.
I think winter invites you to notice warmth more carefully. The small comforts—like a cup of tea, or a patch of sunlight—become holy.
If this is the winter of your life, may it be filled with gentle light, not fear of the cold.
Question from Leila:
“Dekker, every holiday season I feel anxious.
Too many gatherings, too much talk,
too many expectations.
How do I find peace?”
Woof Woof, Leila,
Humans are curious. They say they want peace, but then they fill their calendars until there’s no space to breathe.
Dogs don’t celebrate holidays the same way. We celebrate the ordinary: a warm blanket, the smell of roasting squash, the moment our favorite person sits still long enough for us to rest our head on their lap.
Maybe that’s the secret you’re missing. Celebration doesn’t always mean doing—it can also mean being.
I’ve heard my person say that different traditions light candles this time of year—some for hope, some for remembrance, some for returning light. To me, a candle is a tiny sun. Its job isn’t to conquer the darkness but to coexist with it.
Could you light one small flame for peace—just for yourself? One quiet moment, one deep breath, one uncluttered night? That’s where true celebration begins.
Question from Jonah:
“Dekker, I can’t stop worrying about the
state of things—news, money, safety.
My chest feels tight all the time.
How do you handle worry?”
Woof Woof, Jonah,
Worry smells sharp—like metal. I know that scent well because it sometimes comes from my person’s hands when she reads the morning headlines.
Here’s what I do: when I sense trouble, I find the nearest patch of calm. Usually it’s wherever my person is sitting. I put my head on her foot and breathe until I feel her heartbeat slow. That’s all I can do—and strangely, it’s enough.
Maybe that’s a lesson for humans: you can’t calm the whole world, but you can calm one square foot of it—your own space, your own breathing.
Have you ever tried to breathe like a dog? Long inhale through the nose (find a good scent!), long exhale through the mouth. Let the air move all the way down to your tailbone. Try it. You might be surprised how much peace fits inside one breath.
Question from Naomi:
“Dekker, what do you look forward to in winter?”
Woof Woof, Naomi,
Snowflakes! Each one has a scent of its own, like frozen feathers. And the quiet that follows a snowfall—oh, that’s my favorite. Even the birds pause. It’s as if the world takes one deep sigh and remembers who it is.
Winter reminds me that silence is not emptiness. It’s space for something new to grow.
I also look forward to small things: the sound of my person’s slippers on the floor, the click of her pen as she writes, the way light turns golden on the walls before dusk. Dogs notice details that people miss. You might try that—listening for life’s smaller songs.
When I think about winter, I think about resting—not quitting. Kind of like trees that stand still in the cold, storing energy for spring. I think about how humans need to do the same.
*************
If your heart feels weary, remember: you don’t have to fix everything. Just stay close to warmth. Find your pack. Rest when you can.
And when the world outside feels cold or angry, know this—love is still alive, moving quietly beneath the frost.
Until next time, may your paws stay warm,
your bowl stay full, and your heart remember
that even in the longest night, the light
has already begun its return.
Woof woof!
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