Chauncey’s Choice (A Thinly Disguised Metaphor For Breaking Through Your Invisible Fences)

Sometimes the answers to challenging questions just sneak up and lick you in the face.

I’ve found myself at a kind of professional crossroads as of late, with opportunities that require decisions about where I see myself headed. Should I stay on familiar paths, the tried-and-true of what I’ve successfully done before? Or should I take risks, wade into unfamiliar terrain that could open up to new and fulfilling roads (or lead to a dead end)?

Typical stuff, sure. But as I looked for answers, I recently found a kind of inspiration from the most unlikely of sources:

My dog.

Chauncey is a very large Goldendoodle, notable for his long legs, expression-filled eyes, ridiculous nicknames (Be-Chauncé, Dr. Chaunstein, Chaun Puffy Combs) and the propensity to hump the occasional human or soft blanket. Chauncey turned 10 recently, what goes for a fairly ripe old age among larger breed dogs. He’s definitely staring at his later years, with perhaps a little less energy and a lot more gas. But overall he’s still a sweet, occasionally needy presence in our lives. He’s a good old dog.

Since we brought him into our home, Chauncey has been a “downstairs dog”. Our doctor recommended a strict no-bedroom visitation policy after a lick from a chocolate lab made my daughter’s face swell like a souffle. Soon after Chauncey’s arrival, we used an electric fence collar and placed a sensor near the top of our stairs. He learned quickly that an approach beyond the first step or two would result in a warning beep, then a brief shock.

A little cruel, perhaps, but it worked. All it took was one zap on his first attempt, and Chauncey never dared to climb those stairs again.

So for 10 years (long after the sensor was removed), Chauncey has waited patiently for us on the landing of our stairs, staring up for a few minutes to imagine what wonders existed in that forbidden space before nodding off. I imagine he accepted his place and his position in the life our home, comfortable and safe but decidedly downstairs.

Now there are a few things that get Chauncey excited: the opening of our refrigerator, the sound of our garage door opening, the presence of the hot new female dog that moved in down the street. But nothing sets off a frenzy in my dog like the site of a suitcase emerging from our basement.

A suitcase represents change to Chauncey. He doesn’t like it when someone leaves, and the suitcase typically triggers Chauncey into a full-on meltdown that causes crop circles to form in our family room carpet.

One night earlier this year, my daughter brought up a suitcase to pack for a trip she was taking the following morning. We tried to hide the bag from Chauncey, diverting his attention with a plethora of milk bones and toys. But he quickly saw past our schemes and spotted the offending bag. And he was not happy about it.

As soon as my daughter brought the bag upstairs, Chauncey took his place at the bottom of the stairs, but wouldn’t sit or chill out. Unhappy with what was progressing, he began to cry loudly and bark his misgivings.

Normally, this is to be expected from him. But this time, after a few minutes of solid agita, something changed in his tone and voice. To be clear, I don’t speak dog, and I don’t have any unusual insight into canine behavioral theory. But it seems clear to me that, at that very moment, Chauncey said something to himself that he had never thought before.

Translated into colloquial English, Chauncey thought: “To hell with it.” And after 10 years of waiting, he made his move.

Chauncey bolted upstairs, breaking through the invisible barrier without pause. He ran in circles for a few minutes, taking a solid look at his newly opened world. Then sat down at the top of the stairs. SATISFIED. He has pretty much stayed there ever since.

To be clear, this is not entirely a good thing. My daughter’s allergies are fine, and Chauncey sleeps in our bedroom exclusively. But it turns out he’s a heavy snorer, and usually wakes up several times a night for some heavy self-licking sessions. Luckily, he hasn’t yet jumped onto our queen-sized bed. There’s no room for three of us up there, and I’m likely to be the one banished downstairs if he does.

But forget the impact, that’s incidental. More importantly, Chauncey’s move up the stairs has given me a few guiding principles in my own professional journey, and his actions are kind inspiring in their own way:

• He found a goal, something lofty (pun intended) but within sight
• He did not allow the past to control his future
• He tested the limits to see what he was capable of
• He risked the possibility of short-term pain for long-term gain
• He used a motivational event to push himself to make a change
• He refuses to eat wet spinach from a can (ok, that one’s not relevant, but I admire his good taste)

It may seem odd to find inspiration in the (possibly manic) actions of a dog, but I suggest doing just that.

Many of us find ourselves in positions where we long for something new. We stare up at the unattainable, longing to jump towards a difficult goal but fearing the consequences.

That feeling is natural. But at some point, you’ve got to stop staring.

Is Chauncey a true inspiration? Maybe that’s an overstatement. But I’m hoping to follow his lead and push past some of my own barriers.

Some of them may be real, some of them may be imaginary. But I know there’s something interesting lurking in the unknown, beyond that invisible fence on the stairs, and I’ve decided that I’m OK taking a risk to see what I find up there.

So wish me luck on my climb, and I wish you luck on yours. In the end, I’m sure it will be worth the effort. Why spend life at the bottom of the stairs?