The Upside-Down Dog: A Meditation on Surrender

This morning I found Ellie, my Irish Setter, asleep on her back—legs splayed at geometrically improbable angles, one ear flopped inside-out, making soft honking noises that suggested her dreams involved either chasing squirrels or a mild sinus issue.

Her belly was exposed to the universe with the confidence of someone who has never checked their credit score.

Here's a dog bred for elegance—a flowing mahogany coat, a graceful gait meant to evoke the misty hills of Ireland—and she's asleep like a discarded marionette. Somewhere, an Irish Setter breeder is quietly weeping into their show ribbons.

I stood there, coffee in hand, doomscrolling headlines about economic uncertainty and geopolitical tension, while Ellie—who cannot work a doorknob—had somehow cracked the code to inner peace.

She was sleeping upside-down by choice.
Not as a yoga pose from a wellness newsletter.
Not because an influencer promised it would optimize her REM cycles.

She just thought, You know what? Gravity can have me.
And she surrendered.

Meanwhile, I haven't fully relaxed since 2019.

I sleep in what can only be described as "strategic positions"—one leg out from under the covers for temperature regulation, phone within arm's reach for emergency alerts, brain looping through tomorrow's meetings like a film reel I can't pause.

Ellie sleeps like she's been shot by a tranquilizer dart in a nature documentary—except she did this to herself, willingly, joyfully.

We live in an age of seventeen-step skincare routines and sleep apps that track dreams like productivity metrics. Ellie just tips over wherever the sunbeam hits.

She has never once Googled "best sleeping position for lumbar support."
Her retirement plan is assuming I'll continue to exist.

It's working out great for her.

The real kicker? She'll wake up from this ridiculous position completely refreshed, stretch once with the languid grace her breed is famous for, and go about her day—three simple activities: eating, napping, and expressing borderline-offensive excitement about the mailman's arrival.

No existential dread.
No checking to see if anyone liked her posts.

Just vibes, and that weird upside-down thing she does.

I'm not saying we should all start sleeping belly-up on the living-room floor.

But maybe there's wisdom in a creature who looks at the chaos of existence and decides the appropriate response is a nap at a forty-five-degree angle to reality.

Especially when that creature cost $1,500 and was supposed to be dignified.