Last fall, at a dryland dogsled race in Pearson,Wisconsin, one canine athlete stood out from the rest. While her competition—mostly pointers and Alaskan huskies—ran one- to three-mile sprints, then rested, she entered multiple divisions in such quick succession that she once hurried straight from the finish line to the starting line without slowing down. Her gaze is stoic. Her fur is orange. Her legs are four inches long.

Musher Betsy Heidt of Wausau, Wisconsin, didn’t plan for her 18-pound dachshund mix, Muppy, to become one of the most recognizable sled dogs in the Midwest. As it turns out, that was all Muppy’s idea.

“I could never get Muppy to walk on a leash,” Betsy told me over the phone. (I’m a dogsledder myself, and cheer for Muppy at races, but I don’t know Betsy well; I reached out to learn the full story.) “Someone commented that I should walk faster, so I walked faster, and then Muppy started running, so I started running, and then she started running faster. I don’t have the cardio for that, so I hooked her up to a bike and off she went. I was like, oh, I guess this is a thing.”

Betsy grew up on a dairy farm in the southern part of the state. As a kid, she sometimes hooked up the farm collies to a plastic sled with bailer twine, then threw snowballs for them to chase so they’d pull her. But those experiments, plus the movie Snow Dogs, were the only context she had for sled dog sports. So she turned to YouTube for urban mushing tutorials, which explained the basics of , , and : dogs pulling bikes, scooters, and human runners, respectively. The videos were helpful, but geared toward folks with huskies and other big dogs. They didn’t address many of the problems she encountered, like that Muppy was so short that she had to swim through puddles. Plus, where do you find a good harness that size?

But Muppy loved pulling so much that Betsy was determined to figure it out. She contacted a harness company called , ordering their smallest adjustable size, and got some goggles so that Muppy’s eyes were protected from sticks and burdock. They trained on deer trails in the woods by their house. Muppy was ecstatic to pull, and her never-ending energy felt like magic—even when she turned to chase critters, and Betsy went flying. “I got really good at reading her body language,” she told me. “I can tell by the way she holds her tail if she’s locked into something ahead of us, whether it’s a person in the distance or an unsuspecting rabbit.” Betsy learned to brace herself, and Muppy learned not to swerve: “She throws into the harness even more to get out that frustration.”

When Muppy was four, in 2021, Betsy posted a picture on Facebook, and a page called Twin Cities Dog-Powered Sports liked her post. “I sent some messages to their page, asking them 900 different questions, and they were super helpful.” When she saw that they were hosting a first-time race in Minnesota, she signed up for the 1.3 mile bikejoring event. She was terrified.

For one thing, Betsy didn’t know if other mushers would accept her. “But my biggest fear,” she said, “was that someone would pass us.” That summer, Muppy had been attacked by three golden retrievers at a park, and she’d been sketchy around strange dogs ever since. How would she react to a team coming up behind them? Betsy made a plan: if another team approached, she would veer off-trail and sit on the ground, holding Muppy, until they were gone. As it turned out, she and Muppy both had so much adrenaline—“We were pedal to the metal!”—that no other teams came close. They finished the course in just five and a half minutes, averaging over 14 miles per hour. The duo didn’t make the podium, but they weren’t on the bottom, either.

After that, they were hooked.

When most people picture sled dogs, they imagine huskies racing 1,000 miles through snowy wilderness. But in dryland racing, an ever-growing corner of the sport, teams consisting of one to six dogs compete in parks, cities, and small towns worldwide. Mushers gather at trailheads and parking lots for long weekends of racing, with world-champion sprinters (often huge, muscular pointers with legs a mile long) competing alongside teams of purebred Siberians and assorted mutts. When Betsy and Muppy first started showing up at races, people assumed that Muppy belonged to a spectator, or that she was a pet accompanying another team. But it wasn’t long before they took her seriously, as both a friend and competition.

Muppy’s not the fastest dog on the race circuit, but she’s among the most recognizeable, and crowds will sometimes gather to chant her name. The affection is mutual: there’s a bar on the country road that leads to one of the race sites, and whenever Betsy makes the turn in her car, Muppy starts screeching with excitement. In the starting chute, while the judge counts down, she wails, eyes glued to the trail ahead—and the moment Betsy releases the brake, they take off at top speed. She’s become a pro at some of the more technical aspects of racing, like getting passed—or, just as often, passing. “The dog parts of the other team, sometimes they just stare as they’re running, trying to decide if she’s food or friend,” Betsy recalled, laughing. “And their mushers will say, ‘Come on, Snowball! You’re getting passed by a wiener dog!”

For the past four years, during dryland season, Muppy races frequently, and trains by pulling Betsy or her husband two to three miles up to four times a week. Betsy works at a composting facility, and even brings Muppy to work sometimes, so she can practice running up and down the compost rows—which smell enticing, making them perfect practice for resisting distraction. Until this year, winter’s been Muppy’s off-season; she spends the snowy months digging and shredding sticks. But Betsy recently bought a fatbike, and the duo have been training for fatbikejoring races on snow.

Last May, Betsy and her husband adopted a second dog, Journey, who’s a terrier-shepherd mix. Journey’s bigger than Muppy, and not that into pulling, but she does love running, so sometimes they enter two-dog races together. Muppy pulls, and Journey simply runs alongside her. Betsy doesn’t mind. The point of dog-powered sports, as she sees it, is to make dogs’ lives richer, and that means embracing each dog’s skills and interests—so as long as Journey’s happy, she’s happy too.

As for Muppy, she’s fully embraced her role as an icon; she prances when fans call her name. Betsy’s thrilled to be her ambassador. “If someone has a pet with boundless energy, a sport like this is a great opportunity for them,” she told me. “Even for a dog who doesn’t pull a lot, like Journey, being out in front and making decisions seems to tucker her out more than games of fetch ever did.”

But Betsy’s favorite thing has been seeing how much joy and inspiration Muppy’s athleticism brings to people. “I want to show that little dogs can do things,” she said proudly, “and help more dogs live enriching lives!”

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Tanner Bean stepped over the cliff edge and rappelled down a slope of crumbling rock, as other members of Colorado’s Mesa County Search and Rescue team watched him descend.

After lowering 300 feet, Bean reached a ledge no bigger than a dinner table, jutting from the sheer precipice several hundred feet above the valley floor.

That’s where Bean found Tiny the dog.

“She looked at me like ‘oh my god, oh my god, a human!'” Bean told °żłÜłÙČőŸ±»ć±đ.Ìę“She started wagging her tail and running back and forth. She just seemed so excited.”

Bean, 40, was ecstatic but also worried by the reaction.

“I was like ‘No no no, please don’t fall off this cliff, not now!” Bean added.

It had taken Bean and his SAR teammates six hours to reach Tiny on this cliff edge in a remote corner of the state, several miles outside of the community of Collbran. The group had set out early on the morning of January 2 after receiving an SOS call from Tiny’s owner, a local hunter. The previous day, Tiny, a 20-pound hunting hound, had been tracking a mountain lion across a series of peaks when she had descended the cliff face and become stranded on the ledge. She couldn’t ascend the loose rock, and trying to navigate the descent would be fatal.

SAR officials said that Tiny was wearing a GPS tracker on her collar, which showed her approximate location within the dizzying terrain. Tiny’s owner could see the stranded dog from below with his eyes. Night fell, and the owner realized that Tiny would have to spend the evening on the precipice. The following morning, he called rescuers.

Mesa Search and Rescue, which is based out of Grand Junction, oversees a huge swath of Colorado’s western quarter, and its area of operation includes popular hiking and biking trails outside of Fruita, the Colorado National Monument, and a stretch of the Colorado River that’s beloved by river runners. During the spring and summer, the team fields numerous calls from hikers, cyclists, and boaters.

“Most of our calls are lost hikers or swiftwater rescues,” said Nick Ingalls, 30, one of the other rescuers. “But we will get maybe two or three dog calls each year.”

Fifteen SAR members met at a trailhead near Collbran that morning. Due to the tricky terrain, the group split into two groups to see if they could find the best route to the top of the cliff. The hike in took far longer than they anticipated, as the teams had to trudge through knee-deep snow drifts and navigate tight gullies and washes.

“We were hiking over these ridges that felt like they were made of Frosted Flakes,” Bean said. “You’d take a few steps up and then slide back down.”

It was nearly 4 P.M. when Bean and Ingalls finally located the bluffs above Tiny. Several miles away, SAR members set up a spotting lens to watch the operation unfold. After fixing anchors, Bean descended the cliff, found Tiny, attached her to a specialty dog harness, and lifted her to safety.

Ingalls said that Tiny’s enthusiasm quickly wore off once she got to the top of the mountain. The pads of her feet were bloody and scarred, and she seemed exhausted.

“She acted a lot like a human patient who had been out in the elements,” he said. “So happy at first, and then after the adrenaline wears off, she just laid down.”

They gave Tiny water, but nobody in the rescuing party had brought dog food. Ingalls said he had a single bar of cell service and he texted a friend who is a veterinarian to ask whether the food they had in their packs was safe to feed a dog. In the end, they opened a can of Chef Boyardee ravioli and meat sauce and spooned some out for Tiny. She gulped the meal down.

“I’ve never seen a dog happier to eat human food,” Ingalls said.

But the rescue mission wasn’t over yet—the team still had to get Tiny back to their vehicles. At first, Tiny walked beside the rescuers, but she quickly sat down with fatigue. So Bean, Ingalls, and the other SAR team members took turns carrying the 20-pound dog as they rappelled down cliffs, climbed through dense brush, and trudged through snow drifts. After several hours, Tiny’s owner met them on the trail with his horses, and they finished the journey on horseback. It took them four hours to return to their vehicles.

It was dark when Bean and Ingalls finally reached their vehicles and completed the rescue. The total time for the mission was 13 hours—a grueling day of long hikes, technical climbing, and route-finding in the backcountry. Rescue missions for stranded humans often take a fraction of the time—and this one had been to save a 20-pound pooch. But neither Ingalls nor Bean complained about the outing when I spoke to them on a video call in late January.

Bean told me he’d “100 percent” go through the ordeal to save Tiny again. Ingalls agreed.

“I think we try to always try to have empathy and to put ourselves in their situation,” Ingalls said. “Whether it’s a human or a dog, they’re having the worst day of their life, and we get a chance to help them.”

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My husband, Dave, went skiing down a forested slope behind our cabin near Collingwood, Ontario. It was a rare perfect day when he set out with our dog, Phoebe. The deep powder lured them both.

Phoebe loves to ski. She’s a golden retriever, and a homebody, with traits bred into her for domestic life. Her namesake is a character in Friends, and it suits her. On the slopes, she lunges through the powder on the tails of Dave’s skis. When they reach the end, she turns and runs home.

That perfect day, Dave and Phoebe took three turns. On the fourth, the edge of Dave’s ski hit a downed log. The impact catapulted him forward. With the trunk of a maple tree coming fast towards him, he remembers thinking, I better move my head.

After that, everything went black.

I could tell this story another way: it could be about all the trees Dave hasn’t hit.

The first time we met, I watched him kick-turn down the face of Mount Washington in Oregon. Over the years he’s wound through the trees of the Central Cascades. We’ve skied on glaciers, volcanos, and through glades, and he’s come away unscathed. But trouble found Dave the day he went skiing out our back door.

When Dave became conscious, he was about 350 feet down the slope from our cabin. He thought that something was caught by his neck. When he reached to push it out of the way, he realized it was his collarbone.

Though Dave didn’t know it at the time, he had slammed chest-first into the tree. While his head was spared, he had 16 broken bones.

His skis were still attached to his boots. He tried to turn around, but he passed out, and woke up having slid further down the slope.

Phoebe, our dog, was panting, nervous, and running in circles around Dave. It was just before 4 P.M. The light was flattening; the sun would set in another 30 minutes. He had a blurry thought about his phone, but it was buried deep inside an underlayer in a back pocket. He couldn’t reach it.

It’s not ideal to do any backcountry activity on your own, but we had come to the habit when our kids were young. If you didn’t make the most of each precious spare moment you had, you would probably miss your chance.

And now Dave was fighting an urge to sit down and close his eyes. It was well below zero degrees Fahrenheit.

He managed to get his skis off. The dog leash was around his shoulder. He pulled the end to cinch his arm against his body. The leash became a sling, which took the pain from his collarbone just out of fainting territory. With ski poles in one hand, he took a step. He wobbled, almost fainted again, then glanced up the hill. Which way was the cabin?

He couldn’t see it from that position on the slope. His vision had narrowed to a channel. Direction was hazy. He could only focus on what was right in front of him.

What appeared in that narrow line of vision was Phoebe. Looking into her eyes, Dave could tell she wanted to run home, like she always does.

“Go on,” he said, thinking if Phoebe appeared at the door of the house alone, it might prompt one of us to question why. “Go home,” he said.

Can a dog be a hero? Dog-cognition researcher Alexandra Horowitz, in her , asks if dogs can intentionally rescue people in need. She cites a study that tested the rescue capacity of pet dogs (rather than specially trained rescue dogs). A person was put inside a box. They called out in distress. Then, their dogs were allowed to enter. According to the research, one in three dogs “rescued” their human from the box.

Clive Wynne, the lead researcher on the study, said it’s difficult to assess a dog’s intent. Did the dog rescue the person for an altruistic reason, or did the assistance come from a place of self-interest? Wynne believes that, by finding a way to end the human’s distress, the dogs felt better, too.

Instead of running home, Phoebe turned, moved a few steps, then waited. Dave put a foot forward, a ski pole, and took one painful step. (Eight of his broken bones would turn out to be ribs.) Phoebe took another step, then waited again. Dave inched forward. He kept his eyes fixed on her hind end and slow-moving tail.

This tail became his only focus. Step by step, Phoebe moved just ahead of Dave. He lost track of time. All he remembers is being aware that they were moving uphill—and that keeping the dog’s tail in his sightline was like a lifeline. About halfway up the slope, he stopped and had trouble catching his breath. He thought something had happened to his lung. He’d later learn that it was punctured.

They kept moving together. When Phoebe’s tail finally stopped, Dave looked up and was surprised to see the house. She had led him to the front door. He called and we came running.

Later, I retraced their tracks up the hill. The paw prints didn’t take the steepest or most direct route. Phoebe led Dave in a steady line, one that he could manage. She stayed with him.

When I saw Dave in the emergency ward, he wore a neck brace. Medical officials wheeled him off to a scan, and eventually they would locate the 16 broken bones, including some along the wings of his vertebrae. The crash did no permanent damage; he was incredibly lucky. Two years later, Dave is fully healed, though a little more crooked than he used to be.

But then, in the emergency ward, a nurse had just injected him with Fentanyl. He was fairly lucid, if a little loopy when they started to wheel him away, but there was something else he wanted to say.

As I leaned closer, I realized that in Dave’s mind, it didn’t matter whether Phoebe’s intentions were altruistic or not. There was no need to ask the question. What mattered was her presence. She stayed with him and that was what gave him strength.

He whispered into my ear, “Phoebe saved my life.”

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You’re on a hike with your dog when his paws start bleeding on sharp rocks. Soon after, he refuses to move. It’s not possible to carry him out, because he’s not only injured but stubborn and heavy. You’re miles from your car and dark is coming. So what do you do?

If a human is in trouble, the easy answer is to call search and rescue either with a cell phone or satellite communicator. But if an animal needs rescuing, the answer isn’t so simple.

Many SAR organizations will not respond to emergency calls for an injured animal. They are restricted by law to only dispatch missions for humans, says Keelan Cleary, a member of , which serves Oregon’s northwest corner.

The dispatching agency—in the western US, usually a sheriff’s office; in the eastern US, either a fish and wildlife office or a fire department—must take into account the risks of a mission as well as a team’s bandwidth. Since many teams are made up of volunteers, there’s only so much time and energy they can offer.

It doesn’t mean that SAR team members aren’t animal lovers. Cleary, who has two dogs and a cat, brings treats on every mission just in case an animal is involved.

“When we do deal with animals, it’s usually because a human is injured and the pet is with them,” says Cleary.

Oregon is among the rare places, along with , , and Los Angeles, with an animal-specific rescue organization. Hikers can call the (OHSTAR) team if their pet is in trouble. The team is trained in high angle ropes, tree climbing, and austere environment training, which includes map reading, terrain analysis, risk mitigation, and first aid.

This summer, OHSTAR rescued a Newfoundland named Levon after his owner took him camping in the Mount St. Helens area for respite from a Portland heatwave. That night, Levon started showing signs of heat stress, and in the morning, despite a cool evening and lots of water, he was unsteady and started to stumble. The rescue team arrived quickly with a special piece of equipment called a stokes basket to carry Levon, who weighs more than 100 pounds. Other OHSTAR missions have included saving a horse stuck in deep snow and a dog stranded for a week on a steep cliffside.

Cleary recommends that all pet owners, especially those without access to a rescue organization, add a few more items to their list of 10 essentials in case they ever need to spend a night on the mountain—either because the hiker is in distress or their animal is.

Along with extra layers, water, and food for you, he recommends bringing water and food for your animal. Duct tape can also be a lifesaver; Cleary says he once made a bootie when his dog’s paw pads got scraped. He also brings a lightweight fabric sling in the event he ever has to carry a dog off the trail. Here are for caring for your adventure animal:

• Keep your dog hydrated on the trail. Carry a collapsible dish and offer them water often, especially if it’s hot out.
• Choose pet-friendly trails. Make sure you’re aware of your pet’s physical limits—it’s best to start slow and ramp up the difficulty as you and your pet gain experience hiking together. It’s best to leave your pet at home for technical scrambles and high mileage days. Make sure to follow any restrictions for the area you plan to hike.
• Spend time training recall and obedience off the trail so you can be confident in your control over your pet in the backcountry.
• Familiarize yourself with before embarking on longer adventures, just in case something happens, so a call for help is your last resort.

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Kirk Williams has always lived an active lifestyle. So when he fractured his spinal cord in a mountain bike crash, it wasn’t about if he’d return to a life of outdoor adventures but how to do it. As a quadriplegic, Kirk has relearned how to live an active life, which has involved learning to be patient with himself and his progress. Kirk’s dog Maddox has been by his side every step of the way—both as a loyal companion for life on the road and as a teacher who reminds Kirk to slow down, be patient, and appreciate every moment. Watch the video and learn more life lessons from a dog.

Founded 75 years ago with an unwavering commitment to science-led pet nutrition, Hill’s Pet Nutrition is on a mission to help enrich and lengthen the special relationships between people and their pets. Hill’s is dedicated to pioneering research for dogs and cats using a scientific understanding of their specific needs. As a leading veterinarian recommended pet food brand, knowledge is our first ingredient with 220+ veterinarians, PhD nutritionists and food scientists working to develop breakthrough innovations in pet health. Hill’s Prescription Diet therapeutic nutrition plus our everyday wellness product line, Hill’s Science Diet, are sold at vet clinics and pet specialty retailers worldwide. For more information about our products and nutritional philosophy, visit .

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Before the summer heat broke, my wife and I made a decision that would have been unthinkable just a short while ago: we went for a hike without Wiley. He was the reason that I started hiking nearly every day in 2012, a big reason why Virginia and I met in the first place. Wiley is part of every decision I make—to the the degree where he’s become an inseparable part of my identity. But now, at almost 12, he’s an aging dog.

We didn’t take him hiking that day because it was over 90 degrees out, uncommonly hot here in the mountains of southwest Montana. And Wiley’s endurance has started to fade, even on cooler days. He’ll lay down in the shade and refuse to go farther, start lagging behind on uphills, and has even stopped beating up his little brother and sister when they stray off-trail.

The reason we’re hesitant to take Wiley on our hikes isn’t because he can’t or won’t keep up—and definitely not because he doesn’t want to come along. It’s more because we’re worried about him. He’ll slip and fall occasionally while climbing our hardwood stairs—something he now accomplishes at a walk rather than a run. And jumping into bed is a feat that he can now manage only with a running start. More than half of my “load ups” at the trucks are now met with Wiley’s sad eyes, which I know to mean he wants me to lift him into the bed.

At home, Wiley spends most of the day sleeping on the couch, laying in the yard, or relaxing on the dog beds we stacked together for maximum comfort. I find myself scratching his head to say goodbye as often as I’m leashing him up to take him with me.

Protection duties—once Wiley’s greatest source of joy—have largely been ceded to Teddy, our six-year-old Kangal. I can’t remember the last time he bit someone or something.

When Wiley swims—something he loves, but has never been any good at—I now keep a watchful eye on him, and drag him out of the water once he starts to show any signs of fatigue.

Wiley wasn’t my first dog by a long shot, but my first after leaving home for college. He was given to me by friends who figured a puppy might be just the thing to drag me out of depression after I lost a business I’d spent years building then, temporarily, the ability to walk following a motorcycle crash. I was so broke the first year that I had Wiley that I chose food for him over food for myself on more occasions than I’d like to count.

Writing that is enough to bring back some uncomfortable memories, but I don’t really think about those that much anymore. The house, the cars, and the security that seemed so unobtainable back then have come through work and time. That’s in large part thanks to the sense of purpose and confidence being forced to provide for Wiley gave me.

But our good times together far outweigh any struggles we faced. Wiley’s been to three countries, most states east of the Mississippi, summited 14,000-foot peaks, rafted rivers, and sailed in the Pacific Ocean and Sea of Cortez. He’s bitten bears, helped me fight off a home invasion back in Hollywood, and served as the best man at our wedding. He was better at those first two tasks than he was the last one, but did at least manage to lead a group howl session during the reception dinner.

And while he’s still healthier looking than many dogs half his age—thanks to cutting out ultra-processed food early in his life—we can still see Wiley aging. From his peak of fitness, where you could visibly see his muscles even through his dense brindle fur, he’s lost about ten pounds, and is now what one of my friends described as “old man skinny.” What used to be meat is now bone. He has a lipoma on his rib cage, and a growth on one eyelid that our vet describes as non-cancerous.

Most dogs with hybrid-vigor—a post-purebred description for a dog that won’t die from cancer at a young age—live 10 to 14 years or so. And while Wiley shows no signs of crossing the rainbow bridge anytime soon, even I have to admit that the end of our time together is now much closer than the beginning. Watching people on television, or friends in real life make end-of-life decisions about their dogs is starting to feel more and more uncomfortable. Selfishly, I’m hoping it’ll still be a feat of heroism involving a mountain lion or grizzly bear that takes him, but realistically I know it’ll probably have to be an injection in the comfort of our own home.

But that’s still hopefully at least a couple years away. My job in the meantime, I figure, is to create as many memories together as possible. Even as it’s harder and harder to bring him along, it becomes more important to put in the effort, or scale activities to Wiley’s ability. Airplane rides—trips where my dogs cannot tag along—feel less appealing. Visits to our cabin, trips to see friends within driving distance, and vacations to Mexico, where we bring the pack, have become easy to prioritize.

Or just hanging out at home, where Wiley likes nothing better than lying under our chairs while we eat dinner, sleeping on his bed next to ours while we sleep, or cuddling up to us on the couch watching a movie. None of that may sound quite as exciting as our old hikes, but we adapt. It turns out any time spent with Wiley, in a place he’s most comfortable, is time well spent.

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As a professional snowboarder, Emilé Zynobia spends a lot of time away from home. But her close-knit community in Jackson, WY, keeps her energized for traveling and excited to come home. At the center of that community: Trapper. As a dog mom to Trapper, Emilé has learned to cultivate an extended family that cares for her and Trapper, and Trapper has shown her how to support that community with unfiltered love and joy. Watch the video and keep reading to see the loving community Trapper and Emilé have fostered together and the lessons Trapper has taught Emilé along the way.

Lesson #1: Open Up

With their always-on friendliness, endless curiosity, and undying loyalty, dogs can crack your heart wide open. EmilĂ© learned this from Trapper. “I didn’t have the world’s greatest childhood,” she recalls. “There were elements of not always getting the attention I craved, and I think it made me a reserved and guarded person.” But EmilĂ© found a devoted companion in Trapper, who always wants to be by her side—showing her that attention goes both ways. Whether she’s traveling for a job, going on a horse packing trip, or splitboarding in the backcountry, Trapper is always eager to join. On the occasions that she has to leave Trapper behind, it’s heart wrenching, and the depth of their bond sometimes brings her to tears. “It’s just me and him, doing life together,” EmilĂ© says, and that kind of connection is worth opening up for.

Lesson #2: Find Joy in the Small Things

We’ve all seen dogs having the time of their lives rolling in the grass or blissing out while getting belly rubs from one of their favorite humans. “I think we often assume we’ll see people again, so we treat moments as insignificant,” says EmilĂ©. “But every moment is potentially a significant moment depending on how you contextualize it.” Trapper has shown EmilĂ© how to make each moment count—whether he’s going for a walk or simply enjoying being outside. When EmilĂ© returned home after a recent trip she took a page from Trapper’s playbook. “I spun around the yard and just marveled at the beautiful landscapes around me,” she says. “Before long, I was beaming, and I thought, ‘Wow, this is how Trapper feels all the time.’” Now, that feeling is something EmilĂ© aspires to everyday.

Lesson #3: Be Adaptable

EmilĂ© loves the way Trapper can quickly adapt to any scenario. “As a kid, I had to adapt to a lot of different things,” she says. Trapper will happily go lay on the beach with EmilĂ© while she reads a book or catches a wave, or accompany her on a mountain bike ride. Dogs have to be especially adaptable because they don’t know what’s coming next. To keep Trapper fueled up and ready for whatever adventure the day brings, EmilĂ© is careful about what she feeds him. “If he’s not feeling nourished, then we can’t go on the big bike ride,” she says. If he hasn’t eaten well, EmilĂ© can see how it affects the way he shows up. They recently switched to and so far Trapper has been gobbling his kibble straight, which is new for him. “He’s not like, ‘Hey lady, where’s my topper?’”

Lesson #4: Live Life on Your Own Terms

While Trapper is a friendly, cuddly dog he’s also not one to be pressured into doing anything. For example, he’s a little reserved at the dog park until he finds a dog he really connects with. EmilĂ© appreciates this behavior. “I think there’s this idea that we always need to behave in the way that society expects us to, which is like greeting everyone and being stoked on everyone,” she says. There’s an impulse to encourage him to go say hi to other dogs and run around, but she’s come to learn that Trapper doesn’t play with other dogs until he’s ready. EmilĂ© has appreciated the lesson in learning to let him be who and how he is without judgment. “He does things his own way and engages in the way he wants to engage.”

Founded 75 years ago with an unwavering commitment to science-led pet nutrition, Hill’s Pet Nutrition is on a mission to help enrich and lengthen the special relationships between people and their pets. Hill’s is dedicated to pioneering research for dogs and cats using a scientific understanding of their specific needs. As a leading veterinarian recommended pet food brand, knowledge is our first ingredient with 220+ veterinarians, PhD nutritionists and food scientists working to develop breakthrough innovations in pet health. Hill’s Prescription Diet therapeutic nutrition plus our everyday wellness product line, Hill’s Science Diet, are sold at vet clinics and pet specialty retailers worldwide. For more information about our products and nutritional philosophy, visit .

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Kirk Williams has always lived an active lifestyle. So when he fractured his spinal cord in a mountain bike crash, it wasn’t about if he’d return to a life of outdoor adventures but how to do it. As a quadriplegic, Kirk has relearned how to live an active life, which has involved learning to be patient with himself and his progress. Kirk’s dog Maddox has been by his side every step of the way—both as a loyal companion for life on the road and as a teacher who reminds Kirk to slow down, be patient, and appreciate every moment. Watch the video and keep reading to see how Maddox and Kirk support each other through life and the lessons Maddox has taught Kirk along the way.

Lesson #1: Love Where You Are

Most dogs love being where their humans are. That’s definitely the case for Maddox. He’s happiest with Kirk, which means that everywhere Kirk goes, Maddox goes too. In the mornings the pair will head out for a bike ride on the dirt roads near their house and then come back home for breakfast before figuring out what the rest of the day will look like. Maddox loves running errands, like going to the hardware store, and never passes up a chance to swim in the neighborhood pond, go camping, or hang out at breweries. Since he goes everywhere with Kirk, and he loves being with Kirk, he also loves all the places they go—whether they’re doing chores or playing outside. That’s a great lesson because we can’t always control our surroundings, but we can always control how we feel about them. “I love that he’s always happy to see me. I even love that there’s hair everywhere. I just love everything about having a dog.” To fuel all of their daily adventures, Kirk has fed Maddox for many years.

Lesson #2: Be Patient With Yourself and Others

Maddox used to bark at every dog he saw. He didn’t like dogs crossing in front of him on the bike path and he was wary of strangers. Kirk found that the best way through these situations was to stop and reassure Maddox. Over time, Kirk learned Maddox’s triggers, and Maddox learned to trust Kirk and let his guard down. “He’s taught me a lot about just slowing down and not pushing too far beyond our comfort zone,” says Kirk. “You still want to grow as a human and a dog, but not if it’s so severely uncomfortable that it ends up being counterproductive.”

Lesson #3: Slow Down

Through his injury, and his relationship with Maddox, Kirk has learned to move at his own pace and be okay with slowing things down. Kirk can’t grab a cup of coffee to go and use his wheelchair at the same time, which means he sits at the coffee shop until he finishes his cup. “That used to irk me,” he says. But while sitting there sipping his coffee, he often sees people rushing in and out while doing multiple things at once. “I’m actually kind of the lucky one that just gets to sit and take it all in and relax. It’s okay to slow down on the trail, or in life, and just enjoy the moment as opposed to always being like, ‘What’s next?’”

Lesson #4: Life Is Better When Shared

Dogs have the power to make everything just a little bit better. Having a constant loving, happy, and adoring presence makes Kirk’s solo road trips feel far from lonely. “I can’t imagine life without him,” he says. “Through raising him as a puppy, and through the challenges, we’ve grown incredibly close. I feel like we both understand and know each other inside and out.”

Founded 75 years ago with an unwavering commitment to science-led pet nutrition, Hill’s Pet Nutrition is on a mission to help enrich and lengthen the special relationships between people and their pets. Hill’s is dedicated to pioneering research for dogs and cats using a scientific understanding of their specific needs. As a leading veterinarian recommended pet food brand, knowledge is our first ingredient with 220+ veterinarians, PhD nutritionists and food scientists working to develop breakthrough innovations in pet health. Hill’s Prescription Diet therapeutic nutrition plus our everyday wellness product line, Hill’s Science Diet, are sold at vet clinics and pet specialty retailers worldwide. For more information about our products and nutritional philosophy, visit .

The post Life Lessons from a Dog: A Lesson in Patience appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

The post Life Lessons from a Dog appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.