What we can learn from dogs - and why science is proving Hildegard von Bingen right

Hildegard von Bingen wrote about dogs in the 12th century. Not as a pet. Not as a useful animal. But like this:

850 years later, a study by Uppsala University analyzes the health data of over 3.4 million people. The result: 

A study by Uppsala University observed over 3.4 million people for more than a decade. The result: during this period, dog owners died less frequently than people without dogs — the risk of dying during this period was 24 percent lower. In other words: dogs prolong life. Measurably. Verifiably. Across millions of people. And  dog owners die less often from cardiovascular diseases. 

Hildegard knew it. Science now confirms it.

But between these two sentences lies the essential — what cannot be measured in studies. What dogs show us daily. What we can learn from them if we truly observe.

The ancestral wolf in every dog — and why that explains everything

Before we can learn what dogs teach us, we must understand who they are. And where they come from.

All dogs — from Ezra, the Labrador Retriever, to Minni, the small Entlebucher Mountain Dog — are descended from wolves. Genetically, dog and wolf are still barely distinguishable today. 15,000 to 40,000 years ago during the last ice age, as mammoths died out and hunting became more difficult, the first wolves approached human campfires. Not because humans wanted them to. But because the wolves wanted to.

Researchers call it self-domestication (the development of a wild animal into a domestic animal through its own decision — not through human coercion). Those wolves that were less afraid of humans — that came closer, used food scraps and animals in the pasture outside the huts, also sought the warmth of the fire — survived better. Their offspring were tamer. And after thousands of generations, the dog emerged from the wolf.

It was not subjugation. It was a choice. An evolutionary decision for proximity to humans.

12,000 years ago, a person was buried in the region now called Israel. Their hands held a young animal — whether dog or wolf can no longer be said. It is one of the oldest known burials of a human with their dog. They did not want to be separated. Not even in death.

The wolf in Ezra is still there. Deep inside. He sniffs the grass like his ancestors. He watches over his humans. He knows who belongs — like Bakku, who walked through the village and knew everyone who belonged here.

And at the same time, he is so much more than a wolf. He chose us. Again and again. Every new day.

Perhaps that is precisely his gift. He lives in both worlds. He reminds us of nature — and loves us anyway. Or precisely because of it.

Dogs in the cultures of the world — always close to the sacred

What Hildegard sensed, people all over the world have sensed. For millennia. In almost all great cultures, the dog appears — not as an ordinary animal, but as a companion between worlds.

Egypt — Anubis, the dog-headed god

Anubis — the god of the dead and the afterlife — had the head of a dog or jackal. He watched over the deceased. He weighed their hearts. He accompanied souls on their journey. The dog as guardian of the threshold between life and the Other.

Greece — Companions of the Gods

Artemis, Dionysus, Aphrodite — all had dogs by their side. To the healer-god Asclepius (the Greek god of medicine), the dog was even considered a sacred animal — his temples were inhabited by dogs that were supposed to heal the sick through touch and licking. And Odysseus — returned home after 20 years of wandering — was recognized by no one except his old dog Argos. He recognized him immediately. So the story goes.

Aztecs — Xolotl, the soul companion

The Aztec god Xolotl (pronounced: Sho-lotl) — depicted as a naked dog with wrinkles — was the companion of souls to the afterlife. He guided the deceased through the underworld. Without Xolotl, no soul could find its way. Aztecs and Mayans therefore buried their dead with dogs — so that they would not go alone.

China — Fo, the dog deity

In the Chinese dynasties, a dog named Fo is reported — a deity in dog form, guardian of houses and protector of ancestral tombs. Buddha himself is said to have always been surrounded by small lion dogs that transformed into large lions when danger arose. And in the Chinese zodiac, the dog stands for loyalty, honesty, and endurance.

Japan — Hachiko

Hachiko — an Akita dog from Tokyo — waited daily at the train station for his owner's return for nine years after his owner's death in 1925. Nine years. Until his own death. Today, a bronze statue of him stands in front of Shibuya Station. The symbol of loyalty that needs no explanation.

In almost all cultures — Egypt, Greece, Aztecs, Mayans, China, Japan — the dog is the companion at the border. The guardian of the threshold. The being that stands between worlds.

Ezra sometimes stands at the edge of the garden. Stares into nothing. Or into everything. I don't know. But I sometimes wonder what he sees or senses.

What dogs teach us daily — if we observe

Go outside. Always. In any weather.

Ezra wants to go out. Rain? No problem. Mud? Welcome. Cold? Even better. The colder, the more he likes it.

And that means: I go out too. Not because I always want to — but because he needs it. And because afterwards I'm always glad I went. There's no such thing as bad weather — only unsuitable clothing. I always interpreted this sentence too literally. Now I let go of judging. It is what it is. No emotion in the world can change the weather. Let go of thoughts about it. Or choose thoughts that put me in a better emotion, like: My complexion is replenished with fresh fine moisture. 

Dog owners take significantly more steps per day on average. They have lower blood pressure. Better heart values. And they are outside when others are sitting inside.

Minni, however, has a different philosophy. Minni looks out the door when it rains. Turns around. Goes back inside. No pee. No walkies. No interest. Grandma and grandpa always used to go out — that's how it was. But Minni is inspiring them right now. She shows them that you can just turn around when it rains. That you can make life easier for yourself. That you can always change your mind. If the context changes, my feeling about it, it no longer feels right, then I can make a new choice. Not get stuck on something that was once a real determination and focus and then just became habit or routine.

Two dogs. Two lessons. Both right.

Honor nature — because dogs can do it naturally

Ezra sniffs the grass. Sucks on it. Chooses carefully. He doesn't just take what he finds — he checks. He decides. He knows what he needs.

This is a creature still close to nature. One that still feels what is good for it. One that doesn't think — but feels. We humans have somewhat unlearned this or are no longer so practiced. Dogs remind us that the earth gives us what we need — if we are attentive enough.

Live in the moment — the only place dogs ever are

Ezra doesn't think about yesterday. He doesn't think about swimming in the Ur river three days ago or in the sea yesterday. He doesn't think about the vet tomorrow.

He thinks: Ball. Stream. Mom. Running with Andreas. Now.

This is not stupidity — it is a form of wisdom that we have unlearned. We carry the past with us. We worry about the future. And sometimes, in doing so, we miss the present.

He meant this unburdenedness. This lightness. This ability to start anew every morning — without resentment, without worry, without the weight of yesterday.

Allowed to slow down — different is not less

Bakku walked slower through the village in his last years. He stretched first, stood briefly — and only then was he ready. Every meter still. Still himself.

We thought: it's just old age. But Bakku showed us something deeper. That slower is not less. That different is not worse. That a body that needs more time is not less valuable because of it.

In a world that is getting faster and faster, this is a radical lesson. Not doing less because you have to — but being allowed to be different because you are. With dignity. With history. With everything you were and still are. And in his last days, he also allowed himself to growl. He never showed boundaries, let every ear be twisted, dragged around everywhere, and cuddled through. Then came the 'I don't like this now' phase.

Show boundaries — clearly and without apology

Minni says no. Clearly. Distinctly. Without apology. Rain? No. Snow? No. She turns around and goes back into the house. No justification. No bad conscience.

How many of us could do that more often? Say no without having to explain it. Show boundaries without apologizing. Take one's own body seriously — just as Minni does, completely naturally, every rainy day anew. And you don't have to accept everything. Not every treat tastes good. Don't swallow it out of gratitude - SPIT IT OUT, please. Turn away. Leave it lying next to you until doomsday. Until it's put away. Don't be manipulative. My taste. My decision.

Sense connections that science has not yet explained

Dixi limped. All day long. On the same side where my brother broke his leg — it started on the same day. While he was on a skiing trip.

Natural science says: coincidence. Perhaps. But perhaps this phenomenon simply doesn't belong to natural science yet. Not yet.

Dogs sense earthquakes before humans measure them. They smell diseases that no device detects. They notice when someone is sad — even without words.

We adhere to science — because it guides us, as an anchor, not as a doctrine. And sometimes we feel something that it cannot yet explain. Both have their place. Life is greater than what we can measure.

Care as daily practice

Having a dog means: daily responsibility. Daily going out. Daily paying attention.

But it also means: being reminded daily. That another being counts on you. That you are needed. That life also has meaning in the small things — in the daily walk, in drying off, in thawing bones. And care must be practiced. I know: just because I am caring for my dog doesn't mean I can do it for myself. But it would be a start.

What science says—and what it cannot yet say

The numbers are impressive. People who own a dog have a 24 percent lower overall mortality risk. Dog owners have a 33 percent lower risk of dying from cardiovascular disease. For heart attack patients living alone who owned a dog, the risk of death was 33 percent lower—and for stroke survivors, it was 27 percent lower.

Petting a dog releases oxytocin (the so-called cuddle hormone—a neurotransmitter that promotes well-being, reduces stress, and strengthens trust). Cortisol (the stress hormone) decreases. Blood pressure and heart rate drop.

Studies by Central Michigan University show that dogs in offices improve trust and communication among team members.

A survey of 1,000 Austrian office workers commissioned by Mars—the corporation behind pet food brands like Pedigree and Royal Canin—found that one in three would prefer to come to the office if dogs were allowed. The result is interesting—but the source is not independent, which should be mentioned for completeness.

And then there are the things science cannot yet measure. Dixi, who limps. Ezra, standing at the edge of the garden, staring into nothing. The connection that forms when you look into a dog's eyes.

A part of my soul—in another being

When I look into Ezra’s eyes, I see a part of my soul in him. And I feel completely connected to him.

He is another being. Not me. Not human. Something else—with his own history, his own instincts, his own will. He greets me briefly when I come home. Briefly. Ah, you’re back—glad to see you—I’ll continue what I’m doing. And he runs to Andreas. And then he deliberately comes for a cuddle. Usually in the afternoon, when everything is done.

No drama. No fuss. Simply: there. And then moving on.
Yesterday they picked me up from the train station again. From the platform. He stands there, watches every train—watches closely—watches everyone getting off with high concentration. Then he sees me, comes towards me, gives me a brief touch. Done. She's here—let’s move on.

And sometimes he stands at the edge of the garden. Stares in a direction where I see nothing. Motionless. Attentive. As if perceiving something beyond my senses.

I don’t know what he sees. But I believe he sees more than I do. The wolf in him. The 40,000-year-old DNA. The being that stands between worlds.

In almost all cultures, the dog was the companion at the border. The guardian of the threshold. Anubis with the dog’s head. Xolotl, who guides souls. Perhaps this is no coincidence.

She felt it in the 12th century. 12,000 years ago, a human was buried with their dog because they didn't want to be separated. And today, Uppsala University, with 3.4 million data points, confirms what every dog person has always known:

A dog makes life longer. Healthier. Richer.

But above all—and this cannot be measured—it makes it more complete. 🐾🧡

Dogs carry their history—without words

Our dogs are not "therapied through." They haven't had the opportunity to talk about their experiences. No therapist to listen. No friend to say: look at it from another perspective. No outside perspective to help make sense of what they've experienced.

They simply carry it. In their body. In their behavior. In reactions that sometimes surface and leave us puzzled.

A Harvard University study showed that traumatic experiences in the first months of life influence dog behavior as strongly as sex, age, or neutering—sometimes even more so. Dogs that had stressful experiences in the first six months of life showed significantly more fear and aggression as adults than dogs without such experiences.

Ezra and the watering can. That's not stubbornness. That's a body that remembers. That was sprayed with a garden hose as a young dog—with anger, with disappointment—and never forgot it. Traumatic experiences leave not just memories, but a persistent state of stress in the nervous system—even long after the events are over.

One time with the garden hose. Just once. The brain decided: danger. And it never revised that decision. No conversation changed it. No explanation. No matter how loving the repetition. Simply: once was once too much.

That's fascinating—and instructive. We humans sometimes believe that a good conversation can heal everything. Dogs remind us that some things are deeper. In the nervous system. In the body. Beyond words.

Bakku was so afraid of thunder and fireworks that he would run under the table—and sometimes even pee. No amount of reassurance helped. No "it's just a bang." The body reacted. That was it.

And Ezra—when Andreas puts the suitcases in the hallway—he lies next to them. Guards them. As if he could prevent them from leaving if he just watched long enough. He doesn't want to cycle. He doesn't want to play. He waits. Offended. Sad. Real.

Winnie, who eats everything. Not because she has no sense. But because her body has learned: eat now, because you don't know if something will come later. That's not bad behavior—that's stored life history.

And what about us humans? We have words. We have therapy. We have the ability to say: that was then. I am not that person today. We can develop perspectives. We can decide to react differently.

Dogs cannot do that. They react from what they have experienced—directly, unfiltered, without detouring through the mind.

That doesn't make them weaker. It makes them more honest.

And sometimes—when Ezra has run away from the watering can, or is guarding the suitcases, or Winnie eats the chestnut from the ground for the third time—I pause. And I think: what is this dog carrying? What has he experienced that I don't know? And what would he say if he could?

Perhaps that would be the deepest lesson of all. Not pity. But understanding. Curiosity. The willingness to ask: what's behind this—before I judge.

We practice this with dogs. And perhaps—if we are good—we also learn it with humans. 🐾

References

This article does not replace veterinary advice. This one certainly doesn't. It aims to inform, touch—and remind us of what we sometimes forget.