Ruby and the Barking Dogs
The neighbor’s dogs were barking. Early. Incessantly. I’ve learned - they usually only bark when there is a problem.
I stepped outside with my binoculars - kept right by the door for just such an occasion - and took a look.
Sure enough, they were barking (I could hear that, I didn’t need to see it as well, but it did confirm). Then, I saw it.
Ruby. The young filly. Lying on the ground.
I tried to get a closer look, but it was hard with a small tree blocking some of the view. The other horses seemed fine - they were interacting with the barking dogs.
Maybe she’s just resting. I told myself. No need to panic.
Maybe the dogs are just playing with the other horses. No need to panic.
I went inside and continued getting myself ready to head out to the gym.
I will go outside again in a few minutes and check.
I did, and to my relief, Ruby was standing up, with the other horses.
False alarm. I thought. Good thing I didn’t rush into a panic.
Back inside, putting on my shoes, I heard it again.
The dogs. Barking. Incessantly.
I walked back out to the edge of the patio and lifted the binoculars to my eyes.
Ruby. Laying down. Again. Rolling.
The dogs barking.
Not good.
I grabbed my phone and made the call.
It’s Ruby. She’s not well. I think she has colic. Come right away.
As I set the phone down, worried about Ruby, I realized something else.
The dogs had stopped barking.
The moment I set the phone down, the moment that help and medicine were set in motion - the noise stopped. No barking.
I had interpreted their barking as something annoying - they were bothering the sick horse.
But I realized - they were not being annoying - they were alerting.
Had it not been for the barking dogs, I would not likely have paid attention to Ruby lying in the dirt - horses, especially young horses, often lie down to rest or just relax. Had it not been for the barking dogs I would not have made the call. Had it not been for the barking dogs, Ruby would not have gotten the medicine she needed.
The dogs were not simply barking mindlessly. The dogs were making known in the only way available to them - barking - that there was a situation and someone needed to pay attention.
The moment that ‘someone’ had been alerted to the situation, the dogs’ job was done. They stopped barking. They went back to their dog business and left the rest to the humans.
Sure, it could have been a simple coincidence. But I don’t think so.
I think about J. Allen Boone’s Kinship With All Life, and the way he describes building a “mental bridge” to allow for a silent, two-way communication with the world around us.
If trees can communicate over vast distances through their root network, if fungi can communicate through mycelial networks, if dogs know when their owners are coming home long before they actually arrive, then shouldn’t it be possible that the neighbor’s dogs could sense a young filly’s distress? And in sensing it, could raise an alarm?
And, if that is possible, what else might be?
The truth is, we live in a world that is constantly communicating. But we have been conditioned to tune it out.
I initially heard the dogs’ barking as a nuisance—something annoying to be ignored or pushed through so I could get on with my morning routine.
I wonder, how often do we do the exact same thing with the alarms inside our own selves?
We all have them. That sudden, tightening knot in the stomach when a certain name pops up on our phone. The heavy, unexplainable “bad tired” that weighs us down on a Monday morning. The low-grade, persistent irritation that tells us something is wrong, even when we are trying to convince ourselves that “everything is fine.”
Those internal flares aren’t there to annoy us. They aren’t a spiritual failure or a lack of gratitude.
They are the neighbor’s dogs barking incessantly, trying to get us to step out onto the patio, lift the binoculars, and look at what is actually lying face-down in the dirt.
Like the dogs, our internal alarms will keep barking—getting louder, sharper, and more exhausting—until the reality of the situation is finally acknowledged. But the moment we pay attention, the moment we speak the truth aloud and take action?
The dogs stop barking.
And we finally return to ourselves.
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