Many years ago I found myself sitting in Arizona attending a Zoopharmacognosy course taught by Caroline Ingraham, and at the time I had no idea that a single class would permanently change the way I looked at animals interact with herbs.

Like many people working with dogs, I had spent years learning nutrition, health, behavior, breeding, anatomy, husbandry, and all the things that humans traditionally study when they want to care for animals well. I believed observation was important, but I am not sure I fully appreciated just how much information animals are communicating every single day if we simply become quiet enough to notice it.

Over the course of those few days I watched horses, donkeys, cats, and dogs interact with various herbs, essential oils, plant materials, clays, and natural substances in ways that were both fascinating and humbling. Some animals ignored certain offerings completely. Others became intensely interested in specific substances. Some would approach repeatedly. Some would walk away after only a brief interaction. What struck me most was not necessarily what they chose, but the realization that they were actively participating in their own care rather than simply being passive recipients of ours.

That experience planted a seed that has stayed with me ever since.

This morning, as I walked through the property gathering herbs with the poodles, I found myself thinking about those days in Arizona again.

The basket slowly filled with plantain, oregano, thyme, sage, lavender, and various other plants growing around the garden. The dogs wandered alongside me, stopping occasionally to investigate a scent, examine a plant, or simply enjoy the cool grass beneath their feet. Nothing dramatic happened. No great revelation occurred. Yet some of my favorite lessons with animals have never arrived dramatically.

They arrive quietly.

One lesson time continues to teach me is that we have gradually been conditioned to believe solutions arrive packaged in credentials, laboratories, research papers, products, supplements, or prescriptions, while quietly overlooking the wisdom that often exists in careful observation of the living world itself. While all of those things certainly have their place, I sometimes wonder how much wisdom we have lost by becoming increasingly disconnected from the natural world that shaped both us and our animals for thousands of years.

The dogs have no idea they are participating in something humans call Zoopharmacognosy.

They are simply doing what dogs have always done: investigating scents, interacting with their surroundings, and engaging with the natural world in ways shaped over countless generations.

Perhaps that is what fascinates me most.

The real wonder is not the idea that animals possess mysterious powers, that every plant functions as medicine, or that instinct is infallible. It is the quiet reminder that many species continue to engage with their environment in ways modern humans have largely forgotten how to notice.

But that there is still a conversation taking place between animals and the natural world, and most of us are moving too quickly to hear it.

This morning’s herb harvest will likely be dried, shared, used, or stored away like countless harvests before it.

What I will remember is something much simpler.

A quiet morning shared with a handful of poodles, a basket of freshly gathered herbs, and the gentle reminder that our animals often ask for less than we imagine.

Sometimes the greatest gift we can offer ourselves and the dogs in our care is simply the willingness to slow down and pay attention.