What My Dog Taught Me About Yoga

​I helped my dog, Bonnie, transition recently. She passed away peacefully in my arms. It was one of the most beautiful and painful ceremonies I’ve ever experienced.

I had the privilege of knowing Bonnie for 11 years (since she was just a puppy) and in many ways we grew up together. Losing her has brought up intense waves of grief and reflection. It’s given me time to feel into the relationship I’ve had with her for over a decade. It’s allowed me to observe the lessons she’s taught me about life, presence and even my yoga practice.

Bonnie was diagnosed with mast cell tumors about 5 years ago. What started out as low grade, less risky tumors that we would surgically remove around once per year eventually developed into dozens of high grade, risky tumors that were growing too fast to justify surgical removal. Then the focus shifted from treatment to quality of life and care. 

Our vet told me that Bonnie was a strong girl and that she would probably make it difficult for me to know when it was time. She shared about what signs to look for and encouraged me to start preparing myself.

Anyone who has loved an animal knows that kind of “preparing” is strange and there’s a certain amount of denial that makes certain things feel impossible. Part of me knew the reality of the situation but another part of me also kept hoping for more time with her.

I feel so grateful that I was able to share these years with her. And as I’ve looked through countless photos and videos of our lives together, reflecting on memories and milestones we have shared, I feel warmth and nostalgia. I feel especially nostalgic about the day we first met. A story that, in my opinion, isn’t one you would probably hear often.

Before I got sober around 10 years ago, I was struggling with addiction. Heroin, meth, cocaine… and honestly anything I could get my hands on. My life revolved around trying to get the next “fix”. As an addict, every day posed a potential problem: how am I going to avoid withdrawal? How am I going to get the next dose? The solutions usually involved doing whatever it takes to get the drugs. And it usually involved hanging around some interesting characters and getting into some novel situations.

One day around a year prior to getting sober, my drug dealer called me and said she was going to steal her dog back from her cousin. Apparently, a puppy from a recent litter ended up with a relative that wasn’t doing the best job at caring for her. I was told that the puppy (Bonnie) was being left outside for extended periods of time with no food or water and getting kicked around or beaten for simply being a clueless puppy trying to learn about life.

Looking back at this, it’s interesting that the story of our relationship starts there. 

At the time, I can’t say that I was motivated by compassion or wanting to be a hero. I honestly just wanted to do something to help out my dealer in the hopes that I’d get hooked up with some free drugs or at least get a better deal on what I planned to buy that day.

So I offered to help her reclaim the dog.

It was a quick, stealthy operation from what I remember. What stood out to me most was when we brought Bonnie back to the dealer’s house. We let her outside with the other dogs (one of them her father) and almost immediately she ran out of the fenceless yard and disappeared down the street.

My dealer shrugged and said, “She’ll come back when she’s hungry”, and then walked inside.

But me? No… I couldn’t let it go.

This dog that I thought I just helped save is now roaming around aimlessly… I couldn’t help but imagine her getting hit by a car or attacked by another animal. So I spent hours walking around calling her name.

“Bonnie… Bonnie… Bonnnnieeee…”

And then finally, in the distance, I saw a tall UPS driver carrying a small black dog in his arms. I could see him walking briskly towards me, the dog’s ears flopping around with each step. He called out to me, “Is this your dog?”

I ran toward him. He ran toward me. It felt like one of those cinematic slow-motion moments. 

I didn’t have words, just tears streaming down my face. Tears of relief and gratitude.

He placed her in my arms. I kept sobbing.

He said she had run in front of his truck and he had to step hard on the brakes and swerve to avoid hitting her. After the near collision, Bonnie walked up towards the truck to greet him and that’s when he picked her up and started calling out to find the owner.

I don’t remember if I actually said anything to him. Maybe I was able to blurt out a thank you before he darted back to his truck, parked on the side of the road with the emergency lights flashing. I’m sure he had deliveries to get to. How kind of him to stop and spend those few minutes helping us reunite.

I walked Bonnie back to the house expecting my dealer to share in my relief and perhaps give me something in return.

Instead, she looked at me. Covered in sweat, crisp from midday the sun, with teary eyes, somewhat out of breath. With almost no change in tone of voice from when I left earlier, she said, “You should just take that dog home with you. You obviously love that dog.”

And that’s how I ended up with Bonnie.

I had no intention of being responsible for another living being. And I honestly had no business bringing home a dog at that point in my life. I was young, addicted to drugs, and reckless. I could barely take care of myself.

Yet somehow, Bonnie and I managed to keep each other alive for another year before I was able to clean up my life.

I was a terrible caregiver to Bonnie at that time. I left her alone longer than I should have and fed her mostly whatever food I was eating that day (which usually wasn’t much). I can't remember if I even bought dog food for her in that first year. 

Even though I was a terrible caregiver, something very meaningful was forming between us. A bond that felt so authentic. A connection that was formed with trust, vulnerability, comfort, protection, and love.

At that time in my life I felt so alone. I felt heavy with shame, resentment, and regret. I didn’t feel connected to myself or what was important to me. I didn’t feel a sense of purpose.

But caring for Bonnie gave me something.

It gave me a reason to keep solving problems every day. Not just for me, but so that Bonnie could survive too. I had a reason to keep showing up on the hard days. It wasn’t just for me anymore. It was for us.

After going to rehab and getting sober, my life slowly began to change. While I was attending outpatient therapy and rebuilding my life, I took Bonnie to dog training. And in a funny way, we were both getting trained. We learned routines together and how to act more civilized around others.

We were both a little feral when we first met.

Bonnie used to jump up and lick your face, neck or wherever she could reach until your skin felt raw. I was also impulsive and reactive, trying to learn how to regulate my behaviors through mindfulness practices. 

In fact, my first introduction to yoga happened in rehab. It was on Day 1. I don’t remember much, just that I felt more at ease towards the end of class. Even if my body was fidgety and my eyes couldn’t close during the final relaxation, I still felt more at ease than how I entered the class.

So I kept practicing.

And Bonnie quickly became part of that practice. Anytime I rolled out my mat, she would just lay down right in the middle. It became her mat really, so I just got used to practicing around her.

Sometimes we even did partner yoga. I would gently stretch and massage her legs and she would typically follow that with a few of her own stretches that looked similar to downward facing dog (Adho Mukha Svanasana) and upward facing dog (Urdhva Mukha Svanasana).

I also consider walks together as part of my practice. I learned a lot from Bonnie about myself on those walks. 

Bonnie liked to take her time. She would sniff everything. She would walk slowly, observing the world in a way that invited me to slow down too.

I found myself trying to rush her some days…. As if I didn’t have the extra moments to let her take her time… and every time it brought up the same question in my mind…. Why are you rushing?

The question itself started to feel like its own meditation.

Walking with Bonnie was a practice in patience. A practice in presence. A practice in noticing my own impulses to move forward instead of being exactly where I was in that moment.

I learned so much from Bonnie. Maybe others can relate to the kind of learning that happens in a deep, intimate connection with an animal?

She taught me about compassion, non-judgement, and acceptance.

She accepted me through every chapter of life we spent together…even the messy ones. Forgiveness seemed natural to her. She wouldn’t hold a grudge. She just wanted to express her love fully.

She taught me (and is still teaching me) so much about unconditional love.

She also taught me about resilience.

Despite the rough start she had in life, Bonnie remained sweet, curious, and full of joy. She met the world with an open heart.

Even in the last few years as her body changed and the cancer spread, she kept showing up with strength. 

She also taught me an important lesson that I’m trying to apply in my life, especially right now… Rest is okay.


Bonnie loved taking naps. She would sleep for hours. Sometimes I would sit next to her and place my hands gently on her side and just watch her abdomen expand and contract with each breath.

I called these petting meditations.

We would breathe together. And there was something very soothing about that simple rhythm of inhale and exhale.

It allowed me to set the to-do list aside and feel a sense of presence.

In yoga, we talk a lot about awareness on breath as a doorway into the present moment.

Bonnie seemed to do that effortlessly. And in many ways she has been my greatest teacher of presence.

Now that she’s not physically here, I’m noticing how grief itself has become its own practice.

Grief asks for presence.

It asks me to sit with feelings I’d rather not be experiencing. It asks me to soften, to breathe, to let the waves of emotions come and go.

Yoga has taught me that everything is temporary.

Every breath, every sensation, every posture, every season of life.

It’s one thing to know that from an intellectual place and another thing to actually live it… especially when we lose someone we love.

But when I think about Bonnie, I’m reminded that the most meaningful parts of life often come in simple moments.

Slow walks… shared breath… unconditional love. And the quiet reminder to stop rushing.

The lessons I’ve learned from Bonnie are still integrated in my practice every day. And lately I’ve been leaning into my yoga practice and community more than ever.

When something this big moves through your life, it reminds you that practice isn’t just something that happens sometimes.. It’s something I show up to every single moment.

My practice is the way I move through my day. The way I breathe when my chest feels tight. The way I let myself feel something instead of distracting myself from it.

I’ve been showing up to classes, moving my body, and sitting in meditation. I’ve been letting the simple rhythm of my breath hold me in a familiar and grounding way.

There is something special and comforting about practicing in a community… being in a room where people are breathing together, moving together, and sharing a common objective.

And now, I’m trying to figure out what my routine looks like.

For 11 years, so much of my day revolved around Bonnie. Walks, feeding times, checking on her, watching where she was napping, giving her love and attention, receiving love and attention. So many routines we shared together.

Without her physical presence here, I’m not getting the same cues to stick with these routines. You’d think they would be ingrained in me by now, but I’ve learned from the book Atomic Habits by James Clear that unless something is in plain sight to cue me to do something, it’s not always easy to remember to do the things I want to do.

I’ve been trying to continue some of our rituals.

I still go on walks. Sometimes I even catch myself talking out loud, the way I used to talk to her. Other times, it feels like I’m just talking to myself.. And maybe in a way I am.

Because Bonnie isn’t really separate from me anymore.

She’s part of me. We just have a more subtle relationship than it was before.

The patience she taught me and the ways she helped me slow down and savor each moment, to notice things, to be curious and playful, to breathe, to rest. Those lessons still live inside me. And sometimes when I’m walking and I feel the urge to rush I can hear that same inquiry arise…

Why are you rushing?

And I realize the reminder is still here.. It just comes from within me now.. A more subtle place… a subtle reminder.

I have this thought that my teachers are with me through the impressions they have left in me. The way their wisdom shapes how I move through each day, how I see things, and how I even respond to my life.

I jokingly talk about this knight's round table of advisors I visualize in my mind.. including all the people I look up to.. my greatest teachers are all a part of that council, helping to guide me in the each hard decision. Now Bonnie is at that round table.

Bonnie didn’t speak these lessons to me… she taught me in subtle ways through her loving actions.

And also in the quiet moments I’ve been experiencing (it’s so quiet in my house now!).. I still feel her with me. Just in a different way now.

Grief has been softening me.

It’s slowing my life down. It’s reminding me what really matters.

I don’t know what my routines will look like moving forward.. I’m sure they will evolve and change as I do.

What I do know is that being around community helps. It reminds me that I’m not navigating this alone. I have been feeling so supported by others who have been through grief in their own way. And It’s not about what people say to me.. It’s their presence that matters. Sharing that presence, a hug, a breath… It reminds me that I’m not doing this alone.

Bonnie may not be beside me in the same way she was before, but her love continues to shape the way I show up every day…with presence, resilience, and unconditional love.

with humility and love,

​Katie Beene