My Maremma Thinks I’m an Idiot
Last night Bear planted himself at the back door, barking loudly, staring into the dark. I told him to hush, and he gave me a look I’ve come to know well. It’s the look that says: Do you see that? Know what to do? No… of course you don’t... I hadn’t heard anything. I hadn’t seen anything. But Bear had already decided something was worth warning off, and my blissful ignorance was, frankly, an inconvenience to his job. He didn’t need me to confirm the threat was real. He didn’t ask permission to take up his post. He just did what a Maremma Sheepdog does.
Bear is a livestock guardian dog. Technically, his charges are meant to be sheep. Practically, his charges are us — humans of various sizes - in a house with far too few lookout points for his liking. He has never once seemed confused about this. He has never had a wobble about whether protecting is really “him,” or wondered if he should try retrieving or herding instead. He is completely, unselfconsciously himself. And most days, watching him do his rounds of the garden, I get the strong sense he thinks the rest of us are idiots for not being the same.
Bred to know exactly who he is
Maremma sheepdogs weren’t shaped for speed, obedience, or trick performance. They were shaped, over centuries, for one job: bond with a flock and protect it, using their own judgement, without waiting for instruction. Research, tracking free-ranging Maremmas, found the dogs spend around 90% of their time in the paddocks with their flock, moving independently to assess and respond to risk rather than following commands (van Bommel & Johnson, 2014). A more recent study went further, showing that the mere presence of guardian dogs creates a “landscape of fear” for predators — foxes still enter the territory, but forage less and behave more cautiously, purely because the dogs are perceived to be there, watching (van Bommel & Johnson, 2024). Nobody trains a fox to feel that. The dog’s presence alone does the work.
This isn’t a personality Bear chose. It’s closer to a genetic instruction set. Genome-wide studies of herding and guarding breeds have identified specific genes linked to predation and protective behaviour, alongside genes that shape aggression and tameness (MacLean et al., 2019–2021). Across breeds, genetics accounts for an estimated 60–70% of the variation in traits like guarding, chasing, and trainability. In other words: Bear isn’t performing vigilance. Vigilance is, quite literally, written into him. He was bred to perfection for a single role, and every part of him — nose, instinct, nervous system — is in complete agreement about what that role requires.
We don’t get that luxury
Here’s where it gets uncomfortable for us. Humans don’t get a genome tuned to one clear job. We get language, ego, comparison, and a multitude of competing roles before breakfast — leader, parent, colleague, friend — each pulling for a slightly different version of us. So we go looking for the “real” one underneath, assuming that if we dig deep enough, we’ll find a fixed, authentic self just waiting there, the way Bear’s protecting instinct waits under his thick fur.
The uncomfortable finding from leadership research is that this fixed self may not exist. A twenty-year review of the authentic leadership literature notes that scholars have largely abandoned the idea of a single “true self,” describing it instead as philosophically shaky ground. Psychologists Richard Ryan and William Ryan reach a similar conclusion from a different angle: authenticity isn’t a hidden treasure you excavate once and keep forever (Ryan & Ryan, 2019). It’s an ongoing state made up of autonomy, congruence, and genuineness — showing up, repeatedly, in a way that matches your own values rather than external pressure. Self-determination theory backs this up empirically: people feel most authentic not when they’ve found themselves, but when their actions are self-endorsed in the moment, over and over, rather than performed for approval (Ryan & Deci, 2004).
So, the difference between Bear and me isn’t that he has an authentic self and I don’t. It’s that his congruence is automatic, and mine has to be practised.
What gets in the way
Bear doesn’t do the thing we do, where the mind adds a second layer on top of instinct. He doesn’t stand at the back door wondering if the neighbours think he’s overreacting. He doesn’t rehearse how the bark will be received. He reads the moment, acts, and moves on — no story attached.
We add the story every time.
We feel the pull of an instinct — the honest answer in a meeting, the boundary that needs holding, the decision we already know is right — and then we layer doubt over it: is this really me, or am I being difficult; will they still respect me; what if I’m wrong. That layer is where authenticity leaks out. Not because the instinct was wrong, but because we didn’t trust it long enough to act on it.
What Bear’s teaching me
A few things I’m taking from a dog who is, by every measure, better at being himself than I am at being myself:
Trust the first read. Bear doesn’t wait for a second opinion before he takes up his post. The instinct is the data.
Let the role do some of the deciding. Bear isn’t negotiating his identity fresh every night. He knows what he’s there for, and that clarity frees him to act instead of deliberate.
Act without needing it acknowledged. He protects us whether we notice or not. Authentic action isn’t for an audience.
Rest completely when the watch is over. The same dog who is unyielding in focus when it’s needed, is a puddle on the floor when it’s not. Congruence isn’t constant intensity — it’s matching your state to what’s actually needed.
The idiot verdict
Bear is wrong more often than he’s right — most nights it’s just a kangaroo, not a fox. But he’s never once been wrong about who he is. That’s the bit I’m chasing. Not his uneasiness. His certainty.
So next time you catch yourself second-guessing an instinct you already trust, it might be worth asking what a good dog would do. Mine would already be at the door.