I’m not writing this as an expert in animism.

I’m writing as someone who, late in life, has discovered that something he has been practicing for more than seventy years actually has a name.

Animism.

It’s an old word. Older than most religions. Older than most civilizations. And yet it feels strangely fresh to me—as if I’ve simply rediscovered a way of belonging that was always there, waiting patiently under the surface.

Before I had language for it, I had a dog.

His name was Tiddlywink.

I was five years old when he entered my life. A sturdy, loyal sled-pulling hero who changed winter forever. My brother and I would race down the hill on our sled, laughing wildly, and when we reached the bottom, Tiddlywink would pick up the rope in his teeth and pull the sled to the top. Over and over again. We were the envy of every kid on the block, all of whom had to drag their own sleds uphill.

But what I remember most isn’t the convenience.

It’s the companionship.

He wasn’t a “pet” in the ornamental sense. He was family. A presence. A personality. A partner in adventure. There was loyalty in his eyes. Humor. Even what felt like pride in his work.

Fast forward seventy years.

As I write this, Rascal—my current canine companion—lies sleeping under my desk. His gentle breathing keeps time with the clicking of these keys. The love affair continues.

Reflecting on it now, I realize it was that first love affair that had me decide at seven that I wanted more than anything else to become a veterinarian. Thanks, Tiddlywink. It wasn’t that I had some grand strategy, but it felt natural to devote my life to beings I had always experienced as “someone,” not “something.” Over decades of practice, I met thousands of dogs and cats—each with their own temperament, quirks, dignity, and heartbreak.

I also witnessed something profound in their human companions.

No one believes their dog (or cat) is family.

They know.

There’s a difference between belief and experience. You can read a book about how to ride a bicycle, memorize the mechanics, understand the physics—and still fall over the moment you climb on. Knowing the mechanics is not the same as riding.

In the same way, you don’t believe your dog is part of your family the way you believe a political opinion or a theological claim. You know it because you experience it. You’ve felt the nudge of a nose when you were grieving. You’ve felt the weight of a head on your knee. You’ve watched eyes light up when you walk in the door.

That’s not belief. That’s relationship. And this is where animism quietly enters the room.

Animism, at its simplest, is the shift from seeing the world as a collection of “things we use” to experiencing it as a community of beings we relate to. It doesn’t require superstition. It doesn’t require abandoning science. It simply asks us to notice that our most meaningful relationships often cross species lines.

This is not anti-science.

It’s relational perception.

When I say my dog is a “who” rather than a “what,” I am not making a scientific claim. I am naming a lived reality. A dog is not a human person—but he is undeniably a personality, a presence, a participant in my life. Rascal is one of my best friends who just happens to walk on four legs rather then two.

Over the past year, I’ve taken on what I call the One Cause Vow—to live as though the Four Great Truths are real: Interconnectedness. Sufficiency. Reciprocity. Stewardship.

In reflecting on this vow, I realized something that surprised me.

I didn’t learn interconnectedness from a textbook. I learned it from a dog who loved to pull my sled. I learned reciprocity from decades of two-way devotion—the simple truth that love is a current, not a possession. I rescued Rascal from the Blue Ridge Humane Society. And in the aftermath of losing my beloved Argos, Rascal rescued me from grief and loneliness. That’s reciprocity in its purest form.

And stewardship? Care is the original human technology. Before there were ideologies, before there were institutions, there was the act of tending. Feeding. Healing. Walking. Protecting. Sitting quietly beside another living being simply because they matter.

If this is animism, then perhaps many of us have already been animists without knowing it. Perhaps our first doorway into an ancient way of belonging has always been sleeping at our feet. Here’s a small experiment for today.

One Who Today

Choose one non-human “who.” It could be your dog. A bird at the feeder. A tree outside your window. For sixty seconds, relate without multitasking. No phone. No agenda. Just presence. Notice what shifts in your nervous system. In your breathing. In your sense of aliveness. You may find that meaning does not arrive as an idea. It arrives as relationship.

If animals were my first doorway into kinship, the rainforest blew the door off its hinges. And that’s where we’ll go next.

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