It started with a dog biscuit.
Not an important biscuit. Not a special, vet-prescribed, artisan, cold-pressed, Himalayan-lentil, air-dried biscuit. Just a bog-standard crunchy treat from a tub that had definitely been open for “a while”, in the same way that milk in the fridge is sometimes “probably fine”.
A normal person would’ve sniffed it, shrugged, and given it to the dog.
My brain (a rather ADHD type brain), on the other hand, said: “We must investigate.”
MUST!
Stage 1: The Casual Thought
I’m in the kitchen, gorgeous dog staring at me like I hold the keys to the universe, or at least I can reach snack cupboard.
Hand in tub, biscuit acquired. Then the thought lands:
“How long have these actually been open?”
It’s a fleeting, harmless question. A tiny mental speed bump. For many people, that’s where it would end.
For an ADHD brain, that’s not a bump. That’s a portal.
Stage 2: The Sudden Compulsion To Know
Within about three seconds, the internal dialogue has escalated.
“Do dog biscuits actually go off?”
“They’re dry, they must last ages, right?”
“What even counts as ‘off’ for a biscuit?”
“Is this going to give the dog an upset stomach?”
“What if I’m a terrible, irresponsible owner giving my dog rancid snacks?”
I am now emotionally invested in the shelf life of canine carbohydrates.
The dog is still staring at the biscuit. I am staring at the concept of time, storage conditions, and pet food manufacturing standards. And, the big one; what the heck do they put in these things to make them survive longer than a takeaway burger?
Stage 3: Full Research Mode Engaged
Now we reach the part that is both ridiculous and, annoyingly, very on-brand.
Within minutes, this harmless little question has turned into a micro research project.
Tabs open in my head:
- How long do dry dog biscuits last once opened?
- Do preservatives actually keep them safe or just crunchy?
- At what point does “a bit old” become “please don’t feed that to anything living”?
- What’s the difference between “best before” and “use by” for pet food?
The kitchen hasn’t moved. The dog biscuit hasn’t moved.
My brain, however, has moved to “I want sources, timeframes, storage advice, and consequences”.
I don’t want a vibe. I want data.
Stage 4: The Random Thought Side Quest
Somewhere in the middle of mentally drafting a risk assessment for slightly stale dog snacks (or perfectly edible but years old), a new thought appears:
“Next it’ll be why are pelicans pink.”
And here’s the thing: that thought is uninvited, irrelevant, and very, very persuasive.
My brain is more than happy to drop everything and go on a colour-based ornithology detour, despite the fact no pelican has ever set foot in my kitchen, and the dog is still waiting for the original biscuit verdict.
This is the ADHD experience in a nutshell:
Primary task: dog treat decision.
Actual activity: designing a PhD-level literature review on animal snacks and contemplating a side mission into bird pigmentation.
All because I couldn’t just say, “Ah, they’re probably a bit old.”
ADHD Brain: Useless At Priorities, Great At Depth
On paper, this all sounds absurd.
In reality, this is how a lot of days go when you’ve got an ADHD-flavoured brain.
The pattern is familiar:
Things that should get the focus: client projects, strategy, invoicing, important writing, sleep.
Things that actually get the focus: dog biscuits, pelicans, the history of the paper clip, YouTube videos analysing a TV show you don’t even watch or explaining how to use software ya don’t even use!
It feels ridiculous, and sometimes it is.
But it’s also a clue to how this kind of brain works: once curiosity is triggered, it digs. It pulls threads. It wants the full picture, not just the headline.
That’s infuriating when the subject is “how old is this biscuit”.
It’s incredibly useful when the subject is “how do we fix this broken website, untangle this SEO mess, or explain this complex topic so it actually makes sense to humans”.
When Rabbit Holes Become A Skill
This is the bit that’s easy to forget when you’re halfway through an overthought dog treat decision.
The same instinct that turns snacks into research turns work into depth.
That need to:
- check
- verify
- understand properly
- then explain it clearly
…is the reason clients trust you with their sites, their content, their visibility, and their reputation.
Most people will skim.
Your brain refuses to skim. It wants to know if the digital equivalent of the biscuit is stale, badly stored, or covered in metaphorical mould.
So yes, sometimes that shows up as: “I accidentally spent twenty minutes learning the optimal storage conditions for dog biscuits instead of just giving the dog a treat.”
But it also shows up as: “I will not ship this piece of work until it actually holds up to scrutiny.”
Trying To Tame The Biscuit Brain
Is it possible to harness this and not let it run the whole show? In theory, yes. In practice, sort of.
A few things that vaguely help when the next “dog biscuit question” appears:
The curiosity budget
Give yourself a small daily allowance for pointless research. When it’s spent, later questions go on a list. Not forbidden, just parked.
The “later pile”
When your brain offers a pelican-style thought, capture it somewhere instead of following it. It gives that restless curiosity a pat on the head without derailing the current task.
Use it where it pays
Notice when that research energy lights up around something that actually matters for your work or your life, and lean into it there. Let Dog Biscuit Brain loose on audits, strategy, systems, deep writing.
You’re not trying to shut this part of your brain down. You’re trying to point it somewhere vaguely useful before it vanishes into wildlife trivia.
Back To The Dog
Eventually, a decision has to be made.
You look at the biscuit. You think about how long the tub’s been open. You consider everything you now know about freshness and storage.
The dog just wants a snack.
So you either:
- give in, throw the old ones away, and open a fresh pack like a responsible, over-informed adult, or
- hand over the biscuit, accept that it’s probably fine, and promise yourself you won’t research pelicans. Today.
Either way, you now know far more than is reasonable about canine snacks, and you’ve had another neat reminder of how your brain works: it doesn’t let things go easily, even when they’re small, silly, or crunchy.
And if you ever see an excessively well-researched blog post about something trivial, just understand: somewhere, it started with a dog, a biscuit, and a brain that turned a passing thought into a full investigation.