Rudy
We have many teachers
My dog Rudy died three years ago.
I wrote something similar back then, and recently I came across the note again. What surprised me was realizing that it is still true. Rudy has had a greater impact on my Aikido journey than even the most skilled Aikido sensei I have trained with.
To be clear, he never improved my ikkyo, refined my technique, or taught me how to throw anyone. That was never his interest.
What Rudy taught me was something far more valuable: the experience of us.
Life was never a separate experience for him. There was no Rudy, my wife, my son, and me. There was simply us.
If I was unwell, Rudy seemed to feel it. If I was hurting, he hurt too. He experienced our joys, frustrations, and routines as something shared rather than individualized.
What fascinated me most was how he interpreted the actions of others. If someone did something to Rudy, he rarely experienced it as something being done to him. Instead, he seemed to experience it as a request and responded with gratitude.
When my young son would playfully put Rudy in a headlock, Rudy never appeared offended or threatened. He would relax into it as though my son was asking him for a stretch. When my son let go, Rudy seemed grateful that the request had been fulfilled and would often respond with a lick to the face.
Rudy did not organize the world around self and other.
He lived in relationship.
Many years of Aikido training have led me toward the same lesson. The moment I become preoccupied with what someone is doing to me, separation appears. The moment I return to relationship, there is only us.
One of my greatest teachers of Aikido never stepped onto a mat.
Actually, that is not entirely true.
During COVID, when classes were being held in my garage, Rudy would occasionally wander in at the beginning of class. More than once, he arrived just as we were lining up and bowing in. He would walk to the front of the mat area, sit quietly, and wait.
In his own way, Rudy bowed us in.
Perhaps that was fitting.
After all, he may have understood the lesson better than the rest of us.
Rudy was an amazing being💛I love, and will cherish the picture of him walking-in, holding space at the front of the mat and joyfully bowing you all into the Aikido energy.
Scott, in the example you'd given regarding your dog, Rudy, who died three years ago, here's a part of your description; "If I was unwell, Rudy seemed to feel it. If I was hurting, he hurt too. He experienced our joys, frustrations, and routines as something shared rather than individualized.
What fascinated me most was how he interpreted the actions of others. If someone did something to Rudy, he rarely experienced it as something being done to him. Instead, he seemed to experience it as a request and responded with gratitude. When my young son would playfully put Rudy in a headlock, Rudy never appeared offended or threatened. He would relax into it as though my son was asking him for a stretch. When my son let go, Rudy seemed grateful that the request had been fulfilled and would often respond with a lick to the face. Rudy did not organize the world around self and other. He lived in [a] relationship."
____
An intriguing example, Scott, but you omitted a key ingredient, Love. In this and many other examples you might have given involving Rudy and others in your family (and perhaps those not in your immediate family), Rudy never doubted your and others' love for him. A revealing term when describing your son's playfully placing Rudy in a headlock, Rudy knew that Sam was merely playing with him.
In the real world, however, love is at a premium. Daily, we have too many examples of fear, anger, cruelty and hatred. I am guessing that Rudy, in his relatively short life span, was shielded from these emotions, along with the actions that often accompany them . And even, per chance, Rudy may have experienced one of the above because of a failure by one of your family to protect him. I would wager that would have been a rare moment in the life of this sweet animal -- rare enough to not have erased the love in which Rudy was constantly immersed.
Scott, what I have spoken of with regard to Rudy's loving environment could apply equally to a human reared in a similar environment. If all human offspring were reared with as much love, we would have an entirely different world today, one echoing the words of the prophet, Isaiah, "He will judge between the nations and will settle disputes for many peoples. They will beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks. Nation will not take up sword against nation, nor will they train for war anymore." (Is. 2:4)
Scott, you made mention of another characteristic of Rudy's. Let me quote you once again: " "If I was unwell, Rudy seemed to feel it. If I was hurting, he hurt too. He experienced our joys, frustrations, and routines as something shared rather than individualized."
Your description reminded me of a movie I'd seen when I was a mere lad of 9 years old, entitled, "The Corsican Brothers." This was based upon the novella by the French author, Alexandre Dumas (the same author of "The Count of Monte Cristo" and "The Three Muscateers."). The twin brothers are born conjoined and surgically separated by a doctor's scalpel at birth. Even though they grow up miles apart—one living as a gentleman lawyer in Paris and the other as a bandit in the mountains of Corsica—they retain a supernatural link. They can feel each other's physical pain, distress, and emotions across the sea. Douglas Fairbanks Jr. played the dual role of both twin brothers.
So, Scott, if we draw an analogy between Rudy and either of the Corsican brothers, rather than "us" there is only "I." We often say, "I am that person." We've heard that recently when ICE killed another innocent victim. Feeling the pain of another—often termed empathy—is a profound emotional experience. Our brain's neurons actually light up when witnessing someone else's suffering. This profound connection is what drives us to step in and offer support or intervene even at the risk of our own safety. Sometimes it is an involuntary mirroring of another’s pain. When I, as a rabbi, have often sat at the deathbed of another, I try to let them know that they are not suffering alone. So to bring this back to Rudy, this sweet, loving animal evidenced true empathy, which might serve as an example for all of us. Amen