If you’d told me a year ago that a four–legged whirlwind with eyes expressive enough to win an Oscar would become my life coach… I’d have laughed. Loudly. And possibly cried a bit.
But then Zeb happened.
Zeb, if you’re new here, is my Collie cross with the attention span of a toddler on Haribo and the work ethic of someone who believes he’s employed full-time by MI5. He doesn’t walk through life; he careers into it sideways at full speed and usually dragging a sock he absolutely did not have permission for.
And yet… he’s taught me more patience than any psychology tutor, book or mindfulness app ever has.
Obviously my Christian faith has taught me a lot about patience too — mostly how I’m wired not to have it naturally — but Zeb reflects how patience actually develops.
1. There’s nothing quite like the flowerbed incident.
There’s nothing quite like seeing your fur baby covered nose-to-tail in plant-pot soil because he thought the flower bed was inviting him in like a VIP lounge.
My instinct?
Shout (which I did).
Cry.
Consider putting myself or him up for adoption.
But here’s the thing — I’ve had moments in life that could’ve easily pushed me back toward old coping mechanisms:
stress, overwhelm, an argument, a badly-timed customer service call, ChatGPT freezing mid-sentence or apologising for the tenth time for failing a simple task (seriously), or just a day where everything goes wrong.
Any of those things used to be the kind of triggers that sent me reaching for a vape, cigarette, or multiple bottles of wine.
But Zeb?
Zeb is on another level entirely — a level that bleeds patience dry just to survive him.
No relapse trigger on this earth compares to this dog deciding to use my garden furniture as part of an agility course.
Because shouting doesn’t un-dig the garden.
What it does do is give permission for the zoomies.
Cue the chaos:
- full sprint through the flowerbed
- across the pee-stained and desert-dried lawn
- behind, into, and around every bush
- up and over the garden furniture (yes — he taught himself that jump, absolutely nothing to do with me!)
- straight into the mini-pond to dig for the invisible fish
- then the whole route again, twice, at full velocity
By then, I’m seeing red dots before my eyes.
The next time?
I just breathed, walked back inside, and shut the door.
Zeb’s response?
“Where’s Mum?”
“Why has she shut me out?”
He trots back to the door and jumps up — muddy pawprints smeared all over the glass — staring at me with those big Collie eyes like:
“I promise I’ll behave… just let me in.”
And truthfully?
That’s where patience begins —
not in calm…
but right in the middle of the chaos.
2. He doesn’t rest — ever — which means I have to.
Zeb is not a “lie down peacefully on the rug” kind of dog.
Oh, if only. “
Unless of course, of course, he’s posing like royalty on the forbidden sofa-which I’ve fully surrendered to now because his cheekiness is unfairly adorable.”
If only when doing my research I wouldn’t have just looked for “vocally quiet.”
You see, we thought he’d be good at herding chickens and guarding them. Quiet vocally? Yes. However, his boundless energy makes Tigger from Winnie the Pooh look like a shadow in comparison. It shouts louder than any bark I could have handled.
He rests for five seconds max unless he’s asleep in his crate. That’s when I fall in love with him all over again.
Otherwise, he’s motion-sensor activated:
- toilet? he’s coming
- kitchen? he’s already there
- blink? he’s in front of you somehow
He won’t let me spiral, self-sabotage – oh no, there’s no time for that – and he certainly won’t let me disappear into my own head…
because he won’t even let me go to the bathroom alone. For a pee. A single pee. Mind you – I watch him go to the toilet, so I suppose he thinks that’s the rules.
Yet Blod and I love him to bits – and we really hope he knows it.
He is a God-issued character development assignment.
3. Patience grows in the wonky moments — not the perfect ones.
After the mud, the chaos, the overturned furniture, the snapped plants, the paw–printed windows… there’s still a lesson:
Patience isn’t handed out —
it’s built.
It grows in moments that don’t feel Holy or peaceful.
It grows in the mess, the noise, the hair-tearing frustration, the:
“If this dog jumps up one more time I’m gonna need prayer ministry.”
Zeb hasn’t given me patience —
he’s forced me to build it.
Five frustrating seconds at a time.
One messy moment after another.
