A Five-Pound Dog, a Forbidden City, and the Confidence to Belong
As we left the train station and navigated the maze of merchants separating us from Machu Picchu’s town square, Twinkles—the five-pound Chihuahua strapped into my backpack—was ready to add another entry to her already lengthy CV of unlikely Latin American accomplishments.
As we approached the square, she began to wrestle ever so slightly, her head peeking out of the backpack.
“Good dogs get to do fun things, tiny one.”
She had heard the phrase hundreds of times. It was her motivation.
Right on cue, she relaxed. This was just another aventura—going places and doing things nobody imagined a dog could do, especially one whose breed was practically synonymous with bad behavior.
Tickets purchased, we had only one piece of business to handle before boarding the bus for the 25-minute ride up the mountain to the sacred city.
“Twinkles, go pee.”
She casually climbed out of the backpack and, off-leash as usual, found the only patch of grass in the tiny town square. She squatted.
And declared squatter’s rights.
Seemingly out of nowhere, a Mucuchíes—a mighty local dog with a legendary lineage—strolled onto the scene. He wasn’t looking for a turf war. He simply seemed curious about the tiny, fearless furball who had just claimed his territory.
Twinkles responded by striking her full matador pose.
The square was crowded with tourists preparing to witness one spectacle, the Sacred City. Instead, they found themselves watching another.
One tourist took in the enormous dog, the tiny but utterly confident Twinkles, and panicked.
“Hey, aren’t you nervous?”
I glanced at the peaceful, curious encounter unfolding before us, then turned to the crowd.
“Nope. She’s just fine.”
Confidence is Cultivated
As the bus climbed 1,300-feet from Machu Picchu town square to the Sacred City, most people were thinking, “How in the hell did the Incans haul those rocks up this hill?”
I took the time to reflect.
“How in the hell did a tiny lapdog, once terrified of the outside world, get this good?”
Good God, this pooch had a process.
WANT → CAN → DO
To achieve such a miraculous metamorphosis—to overcome the gravity of taking her very first walk at age six—she first had to see the benefit of taking what, to her, was an enormous risk.
She had to move from being forced to do things I thought she might enjoy to wanting to do things she never knew were possible.
Life beyond the sterile confinement of a king-sized bed—with its pee pads, food and water at the foot—an entire world had been waiting for her.
Wow, these smells are great. Chasing squirrels is fun!
Oh, wow, I’m popular. Twinkles? Those days are over. I want to be La Princesa!
Then each adventure gave her evidence that she could do it. Slowly, experience by experience, her confidence was cultivated.
This wasn’t the product of a few trips to the dog park. It took thousands of interactions and repeated exposure to unfamiliar environments, each one making the next new experience possible.
WANT. CAN.
Only after passing those first two tests could she break barriers. Step by step, she showed that belonging isn’t about permission. It’s about presence, proof, and the courage to climb.
Do things she never imagined she could do.
Do things others said she couldn’t do.