How Dogs Ground Us In The Moment
And cure the curse of acedia
The eyes of the dog are the conservators of the human soul.
Evagrius Ponticus, a monk and ascetic from the fourth-century, wrote about “acedia” (pronounced uh-see-dee-uh). He saw in acedia a rot of the soul—a disgust for the present moment and a restless urge to escape our unhappy lives.
He puts this woe into words for us: “The demon of acedia—also called the noonday demon—is the one that causes the most serious trouble of all. First of all he makes it seem that the sun barely moves, if at all, and that the day is fifty hours long… Then too he instills in the heart of the monk a hatred for the place, a hatred for his very life itself… Should there be someone at this period who happens to offend him in some way or other, this too the demon uses to contribute further to his hatred. This demon drives him along to desire other sites where he can more easily procure life’s necessities, more readily find work and make a real success of himself.”1
What then?
The problem of our monk is the problem of our present. We see acedia all around us. We live in the Age of Acedia.
And so I propose a novel cure to this ancient affliction—the dog.
Let us exorcize this demon from the souls of the possessed.
How can it be a curse for a day to feel fifty hours long? When I look at Carson luxuriating in a sliver of sunlight on the deck, serenading in the songs of swallows and sparrows2, I can only wish for fifty hours in a day. How could I not wish to hear the wet smacking of his sticky black lips for fifty straight hours? How could I not wish to grab two handfuls of his neck and bury my nose in his fur to breathe in his musk, a smell that always reminds me of the sound of a cello?
Behold: with the dog, every hour is a gift.
How can we feel hatred for a place? If I am in my home, I do not curse but laugh when I hear the ccchhh sound he makes when he passes gas and looks around as if he did not do it. If I am in a hospital, I will only feel love when the wet droplets from his nose drip on the back of my hand. If I am in an zombie apocalypse, I will only feel awe when I see the perfectly symmetrical swirls on each of his ass cheeks as if they followed the same logic as a nautilus shell or the rings of an ancient oak. If I am reduced to living in a cave such as our sinewy forebears once did, I will only smile when he snores so loud I am shaken out of sleep.
Behold: with the dog, a hell can be made a heaven.
How can anyone feel a hatred for life itself? No. Life cannot be hated when he lays on his temper-pedic dog mattress and his eyes follow my every step as if my walking from the living room to the kitchen were as though I were walking on water. When I feel flailing paws and razor sharp claws dig into my thighs during his rabbit-chasing dream at midnight only for him to fall into a blissful sleep till sunrise as if my own sleep were utterly irrelevant. When the awful smell of his cod skins lingers in the air and he gnaws at them on the floor as if they were the nectar of the gods. When I fend off sleep for as long as I can so I can savor how remarkably spoonable nature made the shape of his body.
Behold: with the dog, life is a rapture.
And what of the offensive person? How can we give a damn what any man or woman on earth thinks about us when our dog tucks its butt and zoomies around the yard with a colossal and slobbering grin? Why would anyone’s opinion matter when we walk back inside after getting the mail and our dog cries as if we have been reunited after decades of Odyssean misfortunes? Of what use is a person so wretched in their core they feel the need to offend us compared to a dog willing to die for us?
Behold: with the dog, we bear witness to purity of soul.
And so acedia would have us make a “real success” of ourselves. What do the victims of acedia have to say for themselves? “Yes, it is all worthless. Real success is out there, not right here. It cannot possibly exist in the form of the furry tube we call a dog. I am unlucky in my home, my life, and the crooked bastards I am condemned to share this planet with.” But if our victims of acedia seek real success, and if real success is a denial of what is all around us, and what is all around us is wretched or rapturous based solely on what we think it is, what does this say about them? Are they not overlooking real success, real beauty, real life all around them? Will they not bring their wretchedness with them wherever they go?
A life of acedia is a choice. It is no more than eyes unwilling to see. It is a willful slavery to each and every complaint within an undisciplined skull. It is a life spent searching for a better future by saying No to the present moment.
The problem is the present moment is all that will ever exist.
What, then, is the solution?
I believe it is to stare deep into the copper, azure, or emerald depths of our dogs eyes and learn from the wisdom laid bare there, a wisdom as raw, ancient, and secret as the arrangement of the stars. I believe the dog is the exorcist of acedia. The dog is the Praetorian Guard of the present moment. The dog is the reminder of the purity the human soul can strive for—and achieve.
If our dogs could speak (I mean really speak, not me answering my own questions to Carson in the made up voice I suspect would be his if only he had vocal cords) what would they say?
Can you not focus your eyes on the veins of a leaf and your mind on the rhythm of your lungs?
Can you not pause when you are angry, sad, nervous, or melancholy-mad?
Can you not be grateful for every second of your existence and every atom in the universe?
Stop and look at me.
I will always be here…
Waiting at your side…
When you are ready.
My writing at What Then? is a passion project. If this has brought you value and you feel called to support this mission, please consider becoming a paid subscriber or a Plank Owner.
https://logismoitouaaron.blogspot.com/2010/03/demon-of-noondayst-cassian-evagrius-on.html?utm_source=chatgpt.com. They cite: Evagrius Ponticus, The Praktikos & Chapters on Prayer, tr. John Eudes Bamberger, OCSO (Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian, 1981), pp. 18-9.
Check out James Freitas Substack for excellent posts on birds.
Smiling from ear to ear. Totally agree.
And thank you for the new (old) word.
So true Sam, thank you. Dogs are God's gifts to us.