Mabel really wants her dinner. The food is prepared on her elevated dinner table right outside her kennel door.

She knows it. I know it.

The bowl is right there.

And then I open her kennel door.

DOWN. WAIT.

I might grab my own prepared dinner. Sit down at the table and eat it. Fold some laundry. Walk around the room.

While the kennel door is open with her food only 2 feet from her face.

She might be practically jumping out of her pants at first. But she’s holding her DOWN. Eyeing the food, eyeing me, eyeing me and the food.

The food stays there. I keep handling my NEEDS first.

And eventually, she settles. Sometimes she gets bored enough to lay her head down, tongue out and take a nap.

Ten minutes later:

OK (release)

She gets up, tail wagging, face plants in the bowl, and food ghosts in a snap as I hear her licking every side of the bowl till it’s dishwasher clean.

THAT’S NOT REALLY ABOUT DINNER.

WAIT is vocabulary.

At dinner, it means the food can be right there and you still wait for me.

At the front door, it means don't rush outside.

In the car, it means the door can be wide open while I grab my backpack, unload something, or check what’s around us.

On a trail or at a campsite, it means stay there while I handle whatever life just put in front of us.

On the edge of a cliff that drops 3000 ft, it means wait for dad to snap a photo.

Same communication.

Different life.

THE SPECTACULAR FREEDOM COMES FROM REALLY ORDINARY REPS.

The Grand Canyon is the photograph.

Ten minutes next to a bowl of food while I fold laundry is the training.