(Or: I Still Don’t Have a Dog, But I Did Lock Eyes with One in Istanbul and Felt Uncomfortable Things)
By this point in the blog series, you’ll know I’ve covered the big topics:
Mindfulness, procrastination, solitude, breathing, faking balance, and doing sweet nothing like a professional.
So what next? Well, this week, I’ve been thinking about memory.
Not in the “What did I come in here for?” sense (although, frequently yes, that too).
More in the “What am I going to remember when this chapter ends?” sense.
And let me tell you: it won’t be the emails. It won’t be the spreadsheets. It certainly won’t be the Tuesday I spent trying to fix a broken printer with emotional manipulation and gentle swearing.
It will be the absurd, emotional, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moments.
Like that time in Istanbul.
The Istanbul Incident (Involving a Dog, a Street Vendor, and Mild Existentialism)
It was late. I’d just finished delivering a workshop in Istanbul. I was tired, jetlagged, and unsure if I’d eaten dinner or just had three espressos and a fig. Probably both.
I wandered through a side street in Beyoğlu looking for food or peace or possibly a divine sign. Instead, I found… a döner vendor… and a very large, very self-assured street dog.
This dog was massive. A Turkish Anatolian shepherd, I later learned, but in the moment it felt more like a small horse with the confidence of a nightclub bouncer.
It sat by the cart. Calm. Regal. Unmoving.
As I waited for my late-night kebab, I locked eyes with it.
I don’t mean I looked at it.
I mean we connected.
I stared. It stared back. For 13 full seconds.
It didn’t blink. I did. Twice. Out of respect.
It knew things. Things about me. About my soul. Possibly about my browser history.
Then, without fuss, it got up, walked to the kebab cart, took the entire bottom half of a wrap off the counter, and left.
No one stopped it. The vendor just nodded. Like this was normal.
I stood there in silence, holding my half-wrap, feeling humbled, bewildered, and… somehow… seen.
I have thought about that dog at least once a week ever since.
That’s the kind of memory that stays.
Why That Moment is Glued Into My Head (And Your Outlook Calendar Isn’t)
Our brains are emotional magpies.
We remember the weird, the funny, the unexpected, and the deeply human.
Psychologist Daniel Kahneman (yes, him again—he’s basically the Paul McCartney of behavioural science) talks about the Peak-End Rule:
We don’t remember whole experiences—we remember:
- The emotional high or low point, and
- How it ended
So no, I don’t remember the content of that Istanbul workshop.
But I remember that canine con-artist who stole a kebab and a bit of my dignity.
That’s how memory works.
Not by logic, but by impact.
Building a Memory Bank (Without Needing a Password Reset)
So how do you build a life worth remembering?
Not by doing more.
Not by documenting everything like an overzealous vlogger.
Not by pretending you’re writing your memoir on purpose.
But by noticing the nonsense when it arrives.
Moments like:
- Laughing until you wheeze with a stranger at an airport security tray that got stuck.
- Eating something you can’t pronounce in a back alley in Osaka and only realising afterwards that it was probably not food.
- Watching your 11:30 Zoom call descend into chaos because someone named Gavin thought it was his karaoke night.
These are the good bits. And we forget them because we’re too busy trying to be useful.
How to Start Banking the Madness (and the Beauty)
1. Treat Your Brain Like a Camera
But an old-school one.
You only get 36 exposures, so you think hard before you “click.”
Ask yourself: “Will I remember this?”
If yes, stand still and notice it. No commentary. No Insta. Just click: mental photo taken.
2. Use a “One Line Per Week” Journal
Not a Moleskine of guilt. Just one line:
“Lock eyes with Istanbul dog. He won. I left changed.”
3. Give the Moment a Title
Yes, like a film.
Mine from Istanbul?
“The Kebabbing.”
Makes it easier to retrieve later, and frankly funnier.
4. Tell Someone (But Embellish Shamelessly)
Memory loves retelling. And every time you tell the story, it gets a bit more yours.
Yes, the dog may not have actually whispered “You are enough” with its eyes—but the version in your head is better anyway.
Still No Dog (But the Signs Are There)
Every time I do one of these blogs, a dog shows up.
In Week 3, it was a thought.
In Week 4, a metaphor.
In Week 5, a model for rhythm.
In Week 6, the quiet companion of doing nothing.
And now? Now it’s practically a mythological guide.
I’m not saying I’ll get a dog.
But if I do, it will be because these unremarkable, hilarious, oddly poignant moments keep pointing toward something:
Presence.
Play.
Perspective.
…and probably poo bags.
The Real Memory Test
When you’re 83 (God willing), sitting somewhere comfortable, possibly with a cup of tea and a spaniel named Clive, what will you remember?
The busy weeks?
The emails?
The times you said “Sorry for the delay in getting back to you”?
Or will it be the Istanbul dog?
The dodgy karaoke?
The train journey where a stranger offered you a Wotsit and it felt like therapy?
These are your currency.
This is your memory bank.
Start saving.
Next Week – Week 8: Purpose Isn’t Always a Capital ‘P’
I’ll wrap this series with a reflection on how purpose doesn’t have to be grand, strategic, or LinkedIn-approved. Sometimes it’s as small as doing what matters to you—and maybe, just maybe, walking a dog you didn’t know you needed.
Until then, I’m off to reflect on my life with a dog I never met who changed me more than three coaching certifications combined.
Back soon,
Steve
