My dog sits in my lap, and I wonder if there is anything in the world that smells as good as a dog’s fur in the warm sunshine.
Kota is my shadow. He just wants to be wherever I am. He is a constant presence through every door I walk. He is my walking buddy and my napping buddy. He is my guardian, boofing at the bus everyday when it pulls up to drop off the boys. Where would I be without him?
It has not always been this way. He was a maniac as a young dog, so much so that I ended up taking him through a serious rehabilitation program with a professional trainer. It was hard work and it wasn’t always pretty. Sometimes I didn’t know if we would ever get to the other side. But we did, and the other side is pretty cool.
One of the things the rehabilitation process taught me is the value of saying no. If you want a well-mannered dog, you have to be able to tell him no in a way that is valuable. Your no has to have meaning and depth. It has to be significant. It has to be believable.
No, you can’t bite. No, you can’t bark at everything. No, you can’t freak out every time a squirrel runs by. No, you can’t charge the door when people show up at my house. No, you can’t ignore what I say and do whatever you want. No actually means no.
I think we sometimes don’t say no to our dogs because we tend to project our needy, unhealed selves onto them. We think that if we just love them enough they will somehow do the right thing. Only they won’t, and they don’t, because they are animals, not humans. Plus, that strategy really doesn’t work on humans either. Too much affection can lead to disaster, for dogs and people alike. Who likes spoiled brats who get everything they want and appreciate nothing?!
Learning to deliver a meaningful no to my dog carried over into the rest of my life. In the process, I realized that there probably isn’t anything that has caused me more problems in life than my inability to say no. Call it what you want: people-pleasing, conflict avoidance, passivity. I have struggled with boundaries and therefore have tolerated a lot of nonsense in my life.
What I have found is that my no to people needs to be equally as believable as my no to my dog. It can’t be half way, it can’t be wishy-washy. No has to be firmly no, because if it’s not, there will always be someone waiting to transgress your weak boundary and walk all over you.
There is freedom in no. No, I can’t work tomorrow, even though you really need the help. Not my problem. No, I don’t eat sugar and can’t eat your dessert that you made. No, I won’t help you with that. No, my children don’t need that.
No.
Delivering a believable no frees me up to also deliver an exuberant yes when it’s time for yes. In dog training, I learned to use “yes” as a marker word which precedes a reward when the dog completes a command correctly. Yes is a celebration. Yes means success. Yes is a reward.
Yes I’ll meet you for coffee because I really want to, not because I feel guilty.
Yes I’ll help you with that, and not just because I feel like I should or I have to.
Yes I’ll work tomorrow, freely and of my own accord, not dragging my feet.
Yes.
I believe that Jesus wants us to have wisdom in our dealings in life. He said, “Simply let your yes be yes and your no be no; anything beyond this is from the evil one” (Matthew 5:37). I don’t believe he wants us to be doormats without boundaries. I don’t believe he wants us to tolerate endless nonsense for the sake of being “nice.” I believe he wants us to know how to say no, and how to say yes. Anything wavering between or going beyond yes and no is murky and muddy; we should avoid that territory.
I watch the chickens peck while my dog sits on my lap, and I’m happy to give him a yes to this moment. I bury my face in his back, convinced that nothing smells better than a dog’s fur in the warm sunshine. I consider the journey we’ve been on, full of thousands of yeses and nos. I’m grateful for the lessons and the clear communication we have now.
This week, I hope you can celebrate the freedom of having a believable no, for your dog and for your people.
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