Your Inner Dog
Years ago, before I had kids of my own, I yearned for every baby and toddler I saw. I had only to pass someone pushing a stroller or toting an infant to experience a sensation in my chest that felt simultaneously like a constriction and an expansion. I loved those tiny beings, every one of them, and by love I mean I ached for them with a ferocity that bordered on frightening. I wanted to grab them and make a run for it, to pour my vast untapped reservoirs of maternal affection into their little selves.
Now, with my own two baby boys grown into towering teenagers, I no longer feel that craving when I encounter the three and under set. I still think they’re cute and all, but I’m perfectly content to smile and walk on by. But even though I’m also the mother of three charming canines, a huge and painful tenderness still wells up within me every time I pass a dog.
They get the joke—we don’t. Photo by Eileen Harrington.
I think a lot about why I love my dogs so much; why, when I travel, I miss them first, before my children (sorry, but it’s true), my home, or my friends. Twenty-four hours away and I’m already longing for their warm weight against my leg, the comforting thrum of their perpetually wagging tails, the fluff of their fur beneath my fingers as I rub their bellies or scratch behind their silken ears.
The answer, of course, is love—pure and simple. My dogs provide me with an endless opportunity to both give and receive it, as much as I want, without self-consciousness, ambivalence, or complexity on either side.
What about your kids? you might ask. Don’t you love them?
Well, of course. I adore my children. Like most parents I know, I can say, unequivocally, that I would die for them. But here’s the thing: the contract between me and my Three Muttsketeers* is as straightforward as they come. I give them food and water and walks and snuggles, and in return, they love me. The relationship between me and my kids is a lot more complicated.
When it comes to human parents and their offspring, there’s no escaping the weight of hope and expectation. Even if you’re the kind of parent who fluently quotes Kahlil Gibran—Your children are not your children, they are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself—who claims to want nothing more than to see them flower into the fullest expression of their unique selves, it’s impossible to disentangle your identity from theirs. Their dreams and ideals, achievements and setbacks, happiness or lack thereof, feel inextricably bound to your own. When they rejoice, so do you. But when they’re suffering, you marinate in an excruciating brew of misery, guilt and helplessness, stewing over the questions of whether or not you can help, and if you can, whether or not you should.
Intricate dynamics play out across other human relationships as well—with romantic partners, siblings, co-workers, friends… As great as our capacity is to fascinate, delight and support each other, we have an equal or greater capacity to confuse, wound and disappoint each other in ways that could never happen with a dog, no matter how many times it grabbed food off the table or peed on the rug.
Which brings me to the heart of the matter. Our dogs don’t care what we look like or what we’ve achieved. They don’t care about prizes, publications, promotions or income. They don’t care how much we weigh. They don’t care what we are and are not doing every day to save the planet and combat sexism, racism, antisemitism, xenophobia, homophobia, transphobia, ableism, poverty, injustice, or war. They don’t care whether we threw that can into the trash instead of the recycling, said something stupid and offended that coworker, spaced out during that meeting, slept through that appointment and lied about it, forgot our best friend’s birthday, failed to sign our kids up for camp on time, accidentally sent that snarky email to the person it was written about, posted that embarrassing selfie on social media, or any of the ten million other things we do that fall short of the hopes and expectations of that harshest of all possible critics: ourselves.
Instead, they wag their tails, lick our faces, rub up against us, and present us their bellies to scratch. In other words, they give us the kind of all-embracing, all-forgiving love and acceptance that we are unable to give ourselves. In an overwhelmingly uncertain world, the love of a dog is one small, sure thing.
Maybe that’s why, when we adopted Hobie—our first and largest—he immediately became the locus of joy in our home, the glowing center around which we’d converge, delighted; the catalyst that brought forward our most lighthearted, affectionate selves.
So when I pass a dog and feel that aching sensation in my chest? Perhaps it doesn’t mean that I need to add a fourth pup to my already chaotic household. Perhaps, instead, it’s a reminder of how much love is available to all of us at all times, if only we can access our inner dog.
*Thanks to Kate Verhoef for giving my furry trio this excellent nickname.
Feel free to share your own furry love story in the comments below!
If you enjoyed this piece, you might also enjoy Get Out Into It, about how my dogs help me push past resistance and get outside every day.
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Painting by Juli Wesley.