The Barking Dog: When Compassion Doesn't Let You Sleep

Recently, I was sound asleep when I woke up suddenly. At first, I wasn’t sure what had disturbed me. Was my husband snoring? No. Was Zoey shifting in the bed? No, not that. Was the cat doing his usual crawl back and forth across my body? Nope, not that either.

Then I heard it again.
A dog barking outside.

It was dark. I glanced at my phone. 3:20 a.m. Why would a dog be barking at 3:20 in the morning? I turned over, telling myself it would probably stop in a minute. Maybe the dog had just been let out and was ready to come back inside.

But a minute later, I heard it again. A persistent bark. An intermittent whine. A scratching sound.

Anxiety flooded my body. Why is this happening? Is the dog lost? Hurt? Distressed?

I got out of bed and went to the kitchen door that leads to the backyard area of our apartment. I opened the door slightly so I could better tell where the sound was coming from.

It was the apartment building catty-corner to ours.

It was cold outside—and of course, dark. I went back and forth in my mind. Should I just leave it alone? But I knew I couldn’t.

I walked quietly back into the bedroom, slipped on my shoes and a sweater, and grabbed a few dog treats to put in my pocket. Then I stepped outside.

I felt nervous. What if the owner was threatening or confrontational? What if they reacted badly to me “sticking my nose” where it didn’t belong?

I saw a light on in the second-floor apartment balcony where the dog was barking, whining, and scratching, but there was no sign of a person outside. I crossed the grass and stood beneath the apartment. The dog’s barking grew more insistent.

Then someone stepped out.

I cleared my throat. She saw me. In an even but firm voice I said, “It’s 3:30 in the morning, and your dog is barking and whining. You need to bring them inside.”

She didn’t respond, but she did lead the dog back in.

I walked back to my apartment. The barking stopped. I muttered to myself that some people just shouldn’t own dogs—but I was able to fall back asleep, relieved that the dog was finally being taken care of.

The next day, I replayed the scene in my mind several times. That’s when it occurred to me: the compassion I felt came from my inner compass. The word compass is right there inside the word compassion.

I felt glad that I had listened to it.
And quietly proud that I had acted.

How often do we ignore that inner compass—and how different might the world be if we listened just a little more often?