Through My Dog’s Eyes

Through My Dog’s Eyes

A black-and-white world that feels more alive than ours.

By: Sanjay Shharma

My dog doesn’t know what red is.

He’s never seen the maroon of my armchair, the orange of a ripe mango, or the pink of my wife's shawl fluttering in the sun.

He sees the world in hues of grey, black, and dusty blue. But somehow, he sees deeper than I ever could.

If I could see the world like my dog does…

I’d stop noticing the shade of someone’s skin before the tone of their voice.

I’d stop getting blinded by glitter and start sensing sincerity.

I’d stop caring whether the curtain matched the couch, and start noticing whether the laughter matched the eyes.

He doesn't judge the meal by presentation — he knows when it’s cooked with love.

He doesn’t care if I’m in a kurta or track pants — if I smell like stress, he senses it before I speak.

He hears the unspoken, sniffs the invisible, responds to energy.

He knows when I fake a smile.

And he quietly sits beside me — no lecture, no solution, just presence.

At dawn, while the world snores in high-thread-count sheets, I rise — and so does he.

Not with reluctance, but with a tail that writes poetry in the air.

While others dream under blankets, he wakes up for one reason only: to be with me.

And I wonder — what kind of life is that?

Where love doesn’t need a reason.

Where happiness doesn’t wait for the weekend.

Where joy isn’t postponed for promotions.

He has one toy — torn, chewed, unwashed — and yet, every time I touch it, he leaps like it’s Christmas.

We? We buy and hoard and compare and still feel ‘not enough’.

He finds eternity in a single ball.

I sometimes watch him watch the world.

The way his ears twitch at distant sounds.

The way his nose dances mid-air, decoding secrets written in scent.

The way his eyes — colourless, by our standards — still light up when I enter the room.

And I think — perhaps he doesn’t need colour… because he sees truth.

He never fakes a wag.

He never tail-wags at someone he doesn’t trust.

But I? I smile at people I resent, I laugh at jokes I hate, I compliment clothes while envying the wearer.

He forgives instantly.

When I forget his walk, scold him unfairly, or return hours late, he never keeps score.

But I hold onto slights like trophies. I carry grudges like heirlooms.

He naps without guilt, stretches without shame, licks his wound without worrying about what others will say.

He doesn’t wear sunscreen or filters — and still glows with peace.

He doesn't fear growing old.

As his muzzle greys and his legs slow, he doesn’t look into mirrors — he looks into me.

I cover my grey. He wears his like a badge of time well-loved.

He doesn’t need social media.

He doesn't care how many follow him — only who returns.

He lives for presence, not performance.

And then there are things he would never do —

He would never scroll past someone in pain.

He would never forget a touch that was kind.

He would never fake affection just to belong.

He doesn’t know birthdays, anniversaries, or grand gestures.

But he knows when I’ve had a bad day.

He won’t post it, but he’ll sit through it.

He doesn’t need language — because he speaks in presence.

He doesn’t multitask — because he mono-feels.

When he loves, it’s all of him, not a fraction on hold.

So I ask myself — what if I saw like him?

What if I smelled truth, heard silence, and responded to love without needing to win?

What if I lived with a heart that didn’t calculate?

What if I stretched in sunlight without guilt, played without purpose, forgave without permission?

If I saw the world in black and white like my dog does...

Maybe I’d stop overthinking so much.

I’d see things more clearly — people for who they are, not how they appear.

Right would be right. Wrong would be wrong.

No confusion. No clever excuses.

Love would be simple.

Kindness would be enough.

Maybe I wouldn’t chase so many things I don’t need.

I wouldn’t hide my feelings behind big words or fake smiles.

I’d just be — fully, honestly, like he is.

And maybe that’s not seeing less.

Maybe that’s living more.

Maybe it’s not he who sees less.

Maybe it’s me who feels less.

He lives in black and white…but in his world, love is always in colour.

He sees in black and white — but never misses what’s real.

We see in colour — and miss everything that matters.

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About the Author: 

Sanjay Shharma is a writer and cultural commentator dedicated to bridging ancient wisdom with modern life. With a passion for exploring how traditional practices can empower personal growth and self-discovery, his work invites readers to challenge conventions and embrace transformation. Drawing on years of experience and personal insight, Sanjay inspires his audience to rediscover their inner strength and live authentically in a fast-paced world.