Every day, my dog Woody and I embark on our usual neighborhood walk. Woody, a medium-sized dog with a large-sized ego, transforms into a fearless warrior at the sight of any dog, regardless of size. (Oh, if it weren’t for that dang leash!)

But there’s one dog who changes everything—a tiny terrier I’ve nicknamed Rat Dog, the size of a hoagie, yet somehow terrifying to Woody. The moment Rat Dog appears, Woody, who moments earlier seemed ready to take on the world, freezes. His ears flatten, his tail tucks, and my brave protector shrinks into a trembling ball of fur. It’s like watching a superhero discover their ultimate weakness—Woody’s Kryptonite is a glorified chew toy.

As soon as Rat Dog passes, Woody lets out a deep sigh, and then—it happens. He shakes. His whole body quivers, from his head to his paws, as if he’s shaking off all the fear and tension that just overtook him. It’s a full-body reset, and then he’s back to his usual cocky self, swaggering down the street as if nothing ever happened.

Watching Woody do this always makes me think: Why don’t we humans do that? Why don’t we have a built-in, socially acceptable shake-off to release fear once the threat has passed? 

This idea reminded me of a recent episode of my podcast, Fifty Words for Snow. In each episode,........

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