My Friendly Buddha-Corgi
Did Daily Meditation Really Turn My Dog into a Sweetheart?
When a Doctor Prescribes a Puppy
A few months shy of 65, my mailbox became a shrine to Medicare pitchmen. It was depressing. I started thinking, “Am I gonna die…I mean, soon?'“
I asked my GP, “How do I keep this old engine running smoothly?” He eyed my potbelly, stared long at my pallid skin, then declared: “Get a corgi.”
“That’s your advice?”
He nodded gravely. “You’re on track to become a grumpy Scotsman—unless you take action. Those little bundles will keep you laughing, and you’ll walk five times a day. What could be better medicine?”
A Christmas Eve Pickup
On Christmas Eve, I picked up the doctor’s prescription: a wee corgi pup only 8 weeks old, freshly weaned and wobbling, ready for a new forever home.
Someone warned, “Don’t let him get too attached.” So I stashed him in his crate-bed.
Minutes later, he had escaped. I found him perched on a vent in this drafty, 200-year-old house, soaking up heat like a tiny, four-legged radiator.
Attachment? Mission accomplished. But I did wonder—how could I keep this little one warmer still? I mean, warmer inside his wee corgi soul.
Herding the Trainer
Training school, I quickly discovered, was my idea—not his. He was the smallest pup in class but somehow the most determined. While other dogs mastered “sit,” Arthur tried to herd the trainer into submission. My humiliation was complete—my laughter, unstoppable. As was the crowd’s (on the other side of the room.)
I began to believe perhaps there was a better way to train this guy, and it was not with the rest of the pact.
Morning Mantra Buddy
It all happened through his persistence, not mine. And a little by accident. Every day before first light (about a half hour before official sunrise), I would meditate—prayers, chants, the full altar-boy repertoire from Saint Mary’s Family Church in Hudson, Ohio.
One morning, Arthur quietly padded in and stayed. I’d leave a small ritual bowl of “prayer water” afterward; he drank it reverently, as if tasting from the unseen world of angels, guides, and religious masters.
The Old Soul Emerges
Most puppies bounce; Arthur became still. In his first summer, I’d find him sniffing the wind for hours. That autumn, he sat for an entire afternoon, watching leaves fall. He had never seen that before. It was as if, through those daily visits to the meditation room, he’d downloaded a lifetime of calm into one wiggly puppy-body.
Meet the Buddha-Corgi
“What’s with Arthur?” people asked. “He’s as mellow as a Zen master and friendlier than a pub full of strangers. He doesn’t just wag—he radiates a kind of silent invitation to sit, breathe, and be here.” Every guest at our farmhouse was his instant best friend.
Mister Hospitality
Morning, noon, and night, he’d sit by their side, offering his full presence and a steady butt-wiggle and a smile. I have to say he melted my grumpy Celtic psyche, too. As for guests, they sent him Christmas cards and dog cupcakes. I started calling him Mister Hospitality—the four-legged greeter who never forgot a face. Because he never did. Years later, he’d greet the same soul he had not seen in years as warmly as if they’d just come back from the kitchen with a fresh cup of coffee and a biscuit— for him.
A Decade of Presence
Almost ten years have passed. I still meditate; the Corgi still joins me. As soon as he hears me saying a prayer, he climbs down the stairs, pushes open the door, and sits at the back of the room. When I rise, he drinks the prayer water. It’s our quiet ritual, strange, but satisfying ritual.
My doctor, too, is still in my life. He is happy with my reach into healthy longevity. “I have to admit it, for a Scotsman, you’re pretty cheery. Must be that Corgi. Their faces are always smiling.”
Meditation Meets Science (and Corgi Wisdom)
Dogs watch us more closely than we realize. In moments of uncertainty, they look to their humans for cues—a phenomenon known as social referencing. So each morning, when Arthur pads into the meditation room and sees me still and quiet, he drinks in more than just that water. Over time, he began to reflect that stillness, as if the practice soaked into his bones, too.
Science backs it up: studies show that our long-term stress levels sync with our dogs', our cortisol rising and falling together like a shared breath. So yes—meditation changed me. And I know, just as surely, it changed him.
Zen and the Art of Biscuit Maintenance
Almost ten years in, the Corgi is older, so am I—and neither of us bounce quite like we used to. But we still show up, every morning. I chant. He listens. I rise. He drinks. Whatever healing power exists in meditation, I believe it flows both ways—man to dog, dog to man, breath to breath. The prescription was simple: get a corgi. Turns out, I didn’t just get a companion. I got a monk with paws.
A monk with paws. What can be better? Thank you for this account. Lovely.
Wow, this was beautiful, inspirational and a wonderful sharing of how we connect to our pet companions. Thank you. I’m so looking forward to being a part of this adventure.