I’m becoming concerned that we as a species have gone to the dogs – quite literally. Somewhere between the rise of boutique pet grooming and private members’ clubs for canines, dogs appear to have become our preferred species for social interaction.
Parks, beaches, cafes – even offices and yoga studios, which in the past were areas for human exclusivity, or at least priority – are all frequently shared zones. That means you must joyfully tolerate being sniffed or enthusiastically pranced at. Your belongings, likewise, are subject to dog paws and noses. Object, and you’ll be met with looks of discord, as though you’ve confessed to disliking sunlight or laughter. Or the pet person thinks you must be frightened and insists “He/She won’t hurt you!”
If a human, especially a small child, pressed up against strangers, making prolonged eye contact while drooling, there’d likely be reprimands and reining in. But when a dog does it, it’s apparently “adorable”.
We seem to have entered an era of canine exceptionalism. A new dog on a bush walk now attracts at least as much excitement as a new baby. People flock to stroke the spaniel, and entire conversations unfold between strangers about breeds and training techniques.
Across cities, the cult of the dog is expanding with impressive speed. In London, there are private members’ clubs for dogs – actual clubs, with menus, treatments and membership fees that would make most humans blush. In Sydney’s more affluent suburbs, dog grooming salons, resembling human day spas and offering pawdicures, are the new retail must-have. And then of course there’s puppy schools and puppy yoga, where the dog is essential to the practice.
A woman in my old apartment building regularly transported her dog in a pram, complete with blanket and an air of maternal pride. Every afternoon she’d walk the dog, in the buggy, along the harbour foreshore. At Christmas, she put it in the back of her convertible, surrounded by wrapped presents, for a photoshoot. She then drove off with her canine companion in the front seat on Christmas Day, presumably for a special lunch.
Dog ownership has taken on a deeper emotional charge. For some, the pet has become a permanent stand-in, replacing partners or even friends. A dog’s love, after all, is uncomplicated. It doesn’t ghost you or critique your life choices. You can project whatever you like on to it, and it will happily wag along. It’s always ready and willing to accompany you as you head to the shops, the cafe, the park and even to work.
I can’t help wondering where that leaves those of us who still prefer human company. Increasingly, we seem to be the awkward ones, the ones who don’t kneel to greet passing labradoodles or maintain a separate Instagram account for our pets. The ones who dare to prefer human conversation to pet companionship.
Dogs are loyal, affectionate, non-judgmental. They don’t argue or forget to text back. Yet there’s an awful lot of emotional heavy-lifting we’ve assigned them. In a world that feels complicated and lonely, dogs have become our emotional support systems, our confidants, our social icebreaker and, in some cases, our replacements.
I’m really hoping that humanity stages a comeback. That we rediscover the quiet joy of connection not mediated by fur or fetch. I still believe the efforts required to maintain human relationships are overall rewarded. If we give up, we are fast-tracking the road to silo solos, made up of Karens and Kevins who never learned about give and take between humans.
So for now, if you see me in the lift, politely avoiding the dog in the designer raincoat, be kind. That look on my face is me wondering whether it’s the world, not me, that’s gone barking mad.
