On our first walk, I attempted to assert my dominance by dictating the route. I wanted to go left, toward the park. Haruharu wanted to go right, toward the drainage ditch filled with the intoxicating scent of raccoon urine. I tugged. He planted his feet. I pulled harder. He sat down. For ten minutes, we engaged in a silent war of attrition on a suburban sidewalk. Neighbors stared. A mailman laughed.
In Chapter 04 of our life together, I finally stopped trying to lead. I dropped the leash. And for the first time, I simply followed him into the sunshine. This article is part of the ongoing “My Dog, My Master” series. If you have a four-legged master in your own life, share this story and tag us with #MyDogMyMaster. Next week in Chapter 05: How Haruharu taught me to forgive. My Dog- My Master 04 Haruharu
I was wrong.
Dogs do not lie. They do not manipulate. They do not hold grudges. When Haruharu looks at me, I cannot hide my mood. If I am anxious, he presses his head into my lap. If I am sad, he brings me his most ragged, disgusting tennis ball—his greatest treasure. If I am angry, he simply leaves the room, denying me an audience for my tantrum. On our first walk, I attempted to assert
Haruharu is a rescue of indeterminate breed—part Shiba Inu, part village dog, and 100% enigma. His coat is the color of toasted sesame, his ears are perpetually perked like radar dishes, and his eyes… his eyes hold the weary wisdom of a retired samurai. When I first brought him home, I thought I was the rescuer. Within 48 hours, it became painfully clear who was saving whom. Chapter 04 of our journey together began not with a triumph, but with a humbling collapse of my ego. I had read all the books: Cesar Millan’s “calm-assertive” energy, positive reinforcement schedules, leash pressure techniques. I walked into Haruharu’s life believing I was a competent pack leader. I tugged