In the bitter gloom of the new year, my semi-hibernating brain produced this feeble logic: I like looking at dogs in the local park, therefore I might like walking dogs around parks. As I say, it was cold. The sofa and I had become one. Signing up to a dog-borrowing website, one of several in the UK, I posted a quick profile and soon enough met a local co-owner of a small dog, Barney. This crossbreed of many types of terrier was mostly uninterested in the encounter. Still, the following week, I took Barney out for our first solo walk. And this short outing transformed me, instantly, into a dog lover.
Barney was immediately captivating up close: the way he launched into the world, twitchy snout first; the way he suddenly stopped still to track a scent in the wind; his loud snuffling as he sniffed the ground, one paw raised in the air. I liked how he bounced through grass and trotted along paths, how he flipped from clownishly comedic one moment to sleek and graceful the next. I was, in short, smitten by the sheer doggyness of this dog.
It wasn’t just that, though. As a journalist, I’m preoccupied with language and words (some might say pedantically so), but now this non-verbal creature seemed to be communicating with me. What was he trying to say? As I started walking Barney every week, come rain or slightly less rain, I scoured the internet for clues. I followed online search trails left by dog owners: “Why does my dog stop and refuse to move on walks?”, “Why is my dog barking at me?”, and a pet-related twist on that evergreen human insecurity: “Does my dog even like me?”
I learned to read Barney’s signs, and respond in a way that could make sense to a canine. And if I hit a wall, I deployed the same strategy I use with people: I bribed him with food – in this case not cupcakes and home-cooking, but chicken treats and liver paste.
As well as Barney, I now walk a second dog, Arlo, a cockapoo, and marvel at the differences between these two in temperament and character. Barney is high-energy, can be aloof and likes space to do his own thing before he will even consider an interactive game like tug. As an introvert, I can relate. This dog enjoys physical and mental challenges such as dog puzzles (kind of like Wordle for pups) or performing tricks.
Arlo, on the other hand, is more demonstrably affectionate, companionable and social, frequently bounding up to other dogs and people on walks. He too has an impressive range of tricks, but mostly drops toys at my feet and play-bows, signs he wants a game of tug, fetch or chase. Pre-dog me might have half-wondered if ascribing such distinct, individual personalities to animals might be veering into anthropomorphism. Pre-dog me was a fool.
Growing up, we never had family pets and, while I still wouldn’t consider owning one myself (no garden, not enough space and not enough of a routine), borrowing and walking dogs seems like such a wholesome alternative. It is non-transactional, community-spirited and imbued with the Marxist spirit of “from each according to his ability”. Yes, borrowing dogs is actually a form of socialism.
The routine of regularly seeing the same dogs and their humans is a wonderful antidote to our hyper-atomised lives in big cities. And people stop and talk to you when you’re out with a dog. I now talk to people with dogs, too. It’s as if it’s the only time it’s socially acceptable to speak to strangers. Meanwhile, the two borrowed dogs are always happy to see me, since they associate me with outdoor adventures and playtime. And as a counter to constantly nerve-shredding news headlines, this works every time.
I had heard about the mental and physical health-improving aspects of pet ownership – less anxiety, lower blood pressure – but never imagined that just spending a few hours with a canine companion could bring so many benefits. Obviously, I’m enjoying some of the perks without the commitments of raising, training and taking daily care of a pet – and the dogs I walk are thriving and loved. But I am alive to the trust and the responsibility placed on me, not least of being hyper-vigilant on London’s streets, a graveyard of chicken bones, half-eaten sandwiches, dropped sweets and discarded crisp packets. (“Leave it!” is now part of my lexicon.)
I’ve learned what a gift dogs are, why so many see them as part of the family. Sure, dogs don’t need to worry about work, bills or inflation, but there is something about the easy contentment they find in the small things: time in nature, a belly rub or a tasty treat. They enrich our worlds by showing us how much there is to value.
