Soon after I began my meditation practice in the 1970s, my girlfriend suggested I adopt a stray cat. It seemed a simple enough gesture of kindness, until the reality of living with a feline set in. Every time I sat for my morning practice, the cat would climb into my lap, demanding strokes and interrupting my focus. At that stage of my life, I viewed meditation as a fragile state that required perfect silence and isolation.
Without looking deeply for a middle ground, I decided that pet ownership was incompatible with my spiritual goals. I took the cat back to the location where we had found it and left it there. For decades, that decision sat quietly in the back of my mind. Recently, however, as I looked back on that moment, I felt a sense of lingering “karma”—a realization that the lesson I had bypassed then was circling back for a second chance.
The opportunity to do the right thing finally arrived through my daughter. She had adopted an Australian Shepherd puppy, but within two weeks, she felt he didn’t have the right temperament. She planned to return him and find a Golden Retriever instead. Having already poured so much energy and affection into this puppy, I couldn’t bear the thought of him being discarded. I took him in.
Once again, I found myself with a companion that made my morning meditations significantly more challenging. But I am not the same person I was 50 years ago. With five decades of practice behind me, I see this “disruption” with a new vision. I now understand three fundamental truths:
- Meditation is a 24/7 state of being: It is the practice of “staying in your light” at all times. While we may cherish our scheduled silences, life will often present moments in our day that allow us to go deeply within, even with eyes open.
- The expansion of Prema: Spirituality is ultimately about love. That love must be expanded to include all sentient beings without exception. If my peace of mind depends on excluding a living creature, it isn’t true peace.
- Pets as Satgurus: Our animals offer us a rare glimpse of unconditional love. In their needs and their presence, they teach us the very lessons of patience and presence we seek on the cushion.
In the 1970s, I believed that my spiritual life was something I had to protect from the world. Today, I realize that a heart that stays closed to a creature in need cannot be fully open to the Divine. The “karma” I felt wasn’t a weight, but a second chance to choose kindness over convenience. By welcoming the puppy into my home and my morning silence, I finally bridged the gap between my meditation and my life. He didn’t come to interrupt my light; he came to help me live it.
