Blueberry, the Agility Queen and a Lesson in Not Counting Obstacles

So Blueberry and I entered an agility competition recently. And before you ask—did we win anything?

Not unless they start handing out ribbons for “Most Goofy Pair on the Course.”

Let’s just say our teamwork is… interpretive. Blueberry’s got the skills, I’ve got the comedic timing. If there were a category for “creative detours,” we’d sweep it every time. She’s the one who could win medals—if it weren’t for me getting in her way, tripping over tunnels, and occasionally mistaking the exit for the entry. (That’s another post entirely.)

But here’s where things got interesting.

At the end of the event, there was a special “weave pole” challenge—48 slalom poles in a row. That’s right.Forty-eight. Even watching it made me tired.

Blueberry?

She looked at that sea of poles, gave a little tail flick, and sailed through like it was nothing. No hesitation. No counting. No mental spreadsheet of “ugh, 47 more to go.” Just—one, two, three… flow.

I stood there in awe, watching my tiny Papillon zigzag through the line like a four-pound ballerina. And that’s when someone next to me said something that made me stop cold:

“Dogs don’t count the obstacles. They just go through them, one at a time.”

Hot dog, I thought. Imagine if we did that.

We humans love to count, don’t we? We count the problems, the deadlines, the errands, the unfinished chapters, the emails, the reasons we can’t possibly get everything done today. We stack them up like a wall of slalom poles and then panic about how high it’s gotten.

Meanwhile, Blueberry’s over there saying, “Relax, human. Just weave. One pole, one step, one cookie at a time.”

What if we didn’t keep mental score of all our obstacles, but just moved through them, one after another, with a wagging tail and a sense of fun?

That’s what Blueberry reminded me of that day—that life (and writing) is a lot like an agility course. You can’t tackle everything at once, and you can’t plan for every turn. You just keep moving, one small leap at a time, trusting your instincts and maybe laughing when things get messy.

So no, we didn’t win a ribbon. But we came home with something better: a four-pound guru who taught me the fine art of not counting my obstacles.

And honestly? That’s worth more than a trophy any day.

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