This month Zeb turns one.
Which feels like a good moment to reflect on the many unexpected things a slightly chaotic, extremely loyal dog can teach you about life.
I didn’t set out to learn life lessons from a dog.
In fact, if you had asked me during the early days of trying to train Zeb to wait patiently before a walk, I might have suggested that he had been sent purely to test my patience.
Getting ready for walks used to look less like calm training and more like interpretive dance. Zeb bouncing. Me trying to attach a lead and stop what can only be imagined as a dog on a neurotic spring.
Me attempting to maintain some dignity and failing miserably to keep some form of verbal tone control in the kitchen.
From the other room, my husband would sometimes just start laughing.
Apparently what he was hearing sounded something like this:
“Good boy… yes… very good boy…”
“Zeb… wait…No…Come here NOW…Sit Down…..SIT Down and WAIT you absolute nutter, no that’s my FOOT”
..…and then, almost immediately:
“Oh that’s it! Good boy! Yes! Very good boy!”
Gareth speaks through the wall. “I don’t know whether to laugh or suggest some medication for you, or maybe for the dog?”
One could see his point and I could only resort to laughter seeing the picture.
It’s a constant juggling act between trying to be the calm, in control dog trainer…and suddenly realising you’ve turned into an unhinged, impatient SAS trainer.
So yes. On a few occasions, I’ll admit, I completely lost my patience and raised my voice.
He’d stop for a moment, look at me a little cautiously, ears slightly back, as if trying to work out what had just happened.
But then the door would open.
And the moment we stepped outside, he’d look up at me with that intense, joyful expression that says:
“Right then. Adventure time.”
No grudge.
No emotional scorecard.
No silent treatment.
Just complete forgiveness and the same eager anticipation as always.
If humans forgave that quickly, the world might look very different.
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The Morning Stretch Philosophy
Every morning when Zeb wakes up, he comes over and does the same routine right in front of me.
He stretches.
Properly stretches.
Front legs out, back arched, the whole dramatic performance like a tiny Pilates instructor starting the day.
And then he looks at me with that eager expression that basically says:
“Right then. Let’s go. Today’s going to be good.”
No replaying yesterday.
No worrying about tomorrow.
Just stretch… reset… and anticipation.
Meanwhile I’m standing there thinking:
“I need coffee before I can even anticipate my day.”
Zeb wakes up expecting good things.
Humans usually wake up preparing for problems.
Maybe the dog has the better system.
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Trust Isn’t Instant
It took quite a while to convince Zeb that his crate wasn’t some sort of terrible betrayal.
Early attempts involved a lot of tactical manoeuvres — dives under the table, gentle collar grabs, and carefully guiding him inside while he attempted to negotiate alternative arrangements.
When you get an intelligent sheep dog breed, you imagine them understanding what you want. Not understanding it….storing it as information and cunningly using it against you, like this.
“Zeb, settle”
“Zeb Bed” “Bed” “Bed”
Zeb settles under the table like a negotiation.
“Ahhh ok I’ll be good, promise, I’ll just lay under the table I promise”
“Ok now I can play”, No, ok stay here.”
Until he gets his collar grabbed and ultimately ends up there anyway.
But over time something changed.
Consistency does that.
Now he walks into his crate on his own because he knows it’s safe. It’s his space. His place to settle.
Trust wasn’t instant.
It was built in hundreds of small moments where nothing bad happened and everything stayed predictable.
And once that trust formed, the bond became incredibly loyal.
Sometimes when something startles him — even something as ridiculous as a leaf blowing the wrong way — he runs straight between my legs into “middle”, because that’s where he feels safe.
Trust like that isn’t demanded.
It’s earned.
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Relentless Toy Negotiations
Zeb also believes very strongly in three important life principles:
1. Forgive quickly.
2. Trust deeply.
3. The toy should always be thrown again.
If you say no, he waits, eyes playfully scanning for any weakness, with that hopeful innocent look.
If you still say no, he waits closer.
“Human not responding, repeat.”
If you still say no, the toy will be gently placed on your foot as if to say:
“Perhaps you misunderstood the assignment.”
His persistence is remarkable.
If I pursued my creative projects with the same determination Zeb applies to toy negotiations, I’d probably be a six-figure entrepreneur by now.
Somehow, without a formal meeting or written agreement, Zeb has also negotiated our household roles.
I tend to do the walking.
My husband tends to do the night-time play sessions.
And somewhere in the middle of all that, one of us is usually slightly zoned out while Zeb patiently waits for his preferred activity to resume.
He’s surprisingly good at managing the rota.
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Strategic Weeing
Zeb has also perfected what I can only describe as “strategic weeing”.
If he can’t be bothered to stay outside, he’ll perform a very quick, very unconvincing administrative wee and then look at me as if to say,
“Right. That’s the administrative requirement fulfilled. Shall we go back in now?”
Only to be directed back to the grass for a second, third and fourth wee.
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Loyalty Means Knowing Their Needs
At one point Zeb developed a sore patch on his leg after spending two nights away from us at a dog carer’s place.
It wasn’t that he had been mistreated or anything like that. More likely it was simply the change in environment and being away from his people. Somehow he ended up self-soothing in the wrong way — pulling some of the hair out of his leg and licking it.
The result was the dreaded cone of shame.
And if you’ve ever seen a dog trying to navigate life in one of those things, you’ll understand the comedy element.
Zeb suddenly became incredibly clumsy and spatially unaware, walking into furniture, door frames, and occasionally objects that had absolutely no business being in his way.
He’d turn his head and thunk.
Try to walk past something and clonk.
It was like living with a slightly confused satellite dish.
But my heart went out to him.
Underneath the comedy there was something else.
It reminded me just how deeply dogs bond with their people.
Sometimes he just looks at me with an expression I can’t quite explain.
Complete trust.
Complete loyalty.
As if he’s saying,
“Wherever you go, I’m in.”
That’s why it hits so strange, almost wrong, whenever I know Zeb is going somewhere overnight now. My heart sinks a little.
He sees me getting his stuff in a bag and it’s like he knows because his energy shifts to a bit heavy.
I feel strongly protective of him and a little bit sad for him too. Not because he’s being mistreated, but because I know how much he prefers being with us.
I’m sure every owner connected to their pooch understand this—
He really is my baby dog.
And we are very clearly his people.
Loyalty like that comes with responsibility.
When an animal trusts you that deeply, it matters that the people caring for them understand their needs and routines.
Trust isn’t just what they give us.
It’s what we honour in return.
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And somehow, amongst all the chaos, bouncing, negotiations and strategic weeing, this dog has also managed to teach us quite a lot about loyalty, trust and patience. Oh the patience.
This month, on the 15th March, Zeb turns one.
I suspect there are many more lessons to come.
The same dog who once refused to go anywhere near his crate…now fast asleep in it.
