Needless Kneading

My little dog does strange things. 

In his defense, he is quite old, mostly blind, and somewhat deaf. If his sweet Shih Tzu face weren’t already flat and toothless, the walls and doors he frequently plays pinball with would have surely provided him a similar look. 

Occasionally, I’ll walk into a room and catch him standing motionless, staring at a wall 3 inches in front of him. He doesn’t hear me, of course, so he jumps when I touch him as if I’ve pulled him from a deep confusion of why that wall would have the audacity to hit him in the face. 

Bless his tiny heart.

He’s an odd little thing, but throughout his bizarre behaviors are subtle life lessons. Wisdom comes with age, they say.

Daily, I watch him knead his bed for several minutes. This is a common practice for dogs: to try to fluff something that does not fluff, to try to make a comfy nest of something that is already made comfortable. However, my little dog travels clear across the room in his pointless pursuit. 

He will knead that little bed so long and so aggressively that he will end up in a new, inconvenient location, bumping into every piece of furniture along the way. 

Wasted energy. 

Pointless activity.

Meaningless direction.

Needless kneading.

I chuckle and shake my head each time. But not at my funny little dog. 

At the wasted time worrying about such-and-such.

At the pointless activity of scrolling through this and that. 

At the meaningless direction I’ve let my thoughts go.

At the needless kneading—and, yes, needless needing—trying to make an already comfortable life more comfortable.

We can’t lose sight of intentionality, vision, and purpose. 

There’s simply no need for that wall to keep beating us against the head. I mean, for goodness’ sake, the audacity. 

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