On Looking Up

I have a dog. She’s a half Black Lab and half Border Collie. An older lady, pushing 13, but still a job dog to her core. A dog with purpose.

Our neighbourhood borders conservation land. We get a lot of rabbits making the rounds. They aren’t totally kosher with people (who is?) and pets, but they let us get close. They’re out in healthy numbers when the dog and I take our evening constitutional.

Nearly every night, she’ll start burying her snout in the grass and tugging at her leash. She may be old, but instincts like that don’t fade. The dog will dart around, chasing whiffs of rabbit, in no discernable direction.

The rabbit, meanwhile, sits a few feet away. Perched on an incline. Studying our foolishness from a point of vantage. If the dog ever gets close, the rabbit has no problem putting distance between us. And she just keeps on sniffing. Never seeing.

I see this just about every night.

She never catches her prey. The rabbit is always safely out of view while she’s nose-down. Hunting like a fiend. All she’d have to do is look up from the task. She’d see the rabbit right in front of her. Maybe even stand a chance of nabbing it.

Look up once in a while. Take stock of where you’re at. Not just where you think you’re headed.

‘Nuff said.