Every December, I make New Year’s resolutions with the same optimism as a golden retriever seeing a tennis ball. And every January, I abandon them with the same speed. But this year was different—not because I suddenly developed discipline, but because my dog, Baxter, decided to enforce my resolutions with the dedication of a furry, four-legged life coach.
It started on January 1st. My first resolution was “Go on a morning walk every day.” I set an alarm for 6:30 a.m., fully expecting to ignore it. But Baxter had apparently read my list—or perhaps he just sensed my weakness—because he woke me up at 6:00 by dropping his favorite squeaky toy on my face. Not gently. When I tried to roll over, he tugged my blanket off the bed. When I still refused to move, he licked my ear. You cannot sleep through a determined dog. Ten minutes later, I was outside in the cold, marching down the sidewalk while Baxter trotted like a motivational speaker in fur.
My second resolution was “Eat healthier.” Baxter enforced this one with less subtlety. He developed a suspicious interest in all things crunchy: chips, crackers, cookies—anything that could ruin a diet. The moment I reached for a guilty snack, he appeared out of nowhere, staring at me with judgmental puppy eyes. One night I tried to sneak a cookie from the kitchen. Baxter followed, sat in front of the pantry, and sighed dramatically, like he was saying, “Is this who you want to be?” I put the cookie back.
I also resolved to “Keep the house clean.” Baxter helped by turning cleaning into a mandatory activity. Every time I skipped vacuuming, he’d run laps through the living room with a mouthful of dirt from the backyard, sprinkling it like confetti. If I ignored a laundry pile, he’d nap on it, shedding enough fur to double its size. It was as if he believed cleanliness could only be achieved through chaos.
Then there was “Practice mindfulness.” I expected meditation apps and soothing music. Baxter had a different interpretation. He insisted on sitting in my lap during every quiet moment, his warm weight grounding me in the present. He didn’t care about breathing exercises. Just being there, slowing me down, reminding me that now—not later, not
