Dog People

So there I was walking along, minding my own business, and recounting all of the injustices that have been inflicted upon me since the age of eight by a cold, cruel world, when suddenly I was surrounded by dog people. Directly in front of me came a tall man with a white goatee, Australian bush hat, and walking stick. A woman with long, dark hair accompanied him. They were walking a Dobermann. I recognized them from earlier encounters in the neighborhood.

Across the street a young couple in San Francisco Giants caps ambled along with a Golden Retriever and a stroller. At the same time, a dude on a bike came up fast behind me with a midsized mutt on a leash. Racing beside his owner, the dog appeared ecstatic. I imagined it was because he had escaped certain death at the pound and knew it. I would be ecstatic, too.

I can’t say every day is like this, since I don’t go walking every day. I also don’t walk for the fun of it but to get to work, which is about three miles away. So, walking for me has a purpose beyond burning calories or letting the family pooch take a dump on a nicely trimmed lawn. I don’t feel superior to dog people because of this, but I take pity on them for having to scoop up their pets’ excrement and carry it around in little plastic bags the color of crossing guard vests for all the world to see, including crossing guards. I wonder with Nietzsche about who’s really in charge here–master or slave?

It’s also not as if these packs of dog people appear every hour of every day. Generally, they’re out from 7:00 to 10:00 in the morning and 4:00 to 8:00 in the evening. It just so happens that’s when I am most likely to be out and about, walking shoes and all (i.e., Vans). Now that I think of it, maybe the best solution is for the city to create non-dog walking lanes for people like me. That would keep the dog poop in restricted areas. Of course, that wouldn’t work everywhere. I’m thinking of my old neighborhood in the Bronx for one.

I know what you’re thinking. Does this guy not like dogs? Is he a communist? Let me state for the record that (1) I am not now nor have I ever been a member of the Communist Party, and (2) while I can’t say right off the bat that I love dogs, I can say that I like them and might even love one if I got to know him beyond picking up his crap.

I believe (1) above is self evident and can be proved easily, although I’m not sure of the process for proving that someone is not something or that something never happened. You’d need an atheist’s faith for that. I can explain (2) by putting it in terms of used cars, which I sold many years ago. I wasn’t very good at it and may have set a record by selling just three cars in one month. In case you’re wondering, you can’t live on the commission of less than a car a week. At the time, I believed the dealership kept me on the payroll due to my rakish charm. In hindsight, I think it was because I had donated an espresso machine to the sales department (see High and Tight, Low and Slow).

In any event, the used car analogy works this way. When buying or selling a used car, many customers point to the Kelley Blue Book as the final word on a car’s worth. The problem is that the blue book doesn’t tell you the value of your car, which is to say its history and how you’ve driven it over the years. It simply gives you the Platonic ideal, for instance, of a 2010 Honda Accord. It doesn’t say anything about your Accord. And, depending on how you drive, you may be thankful for that.

Imagine the same thing with dogs. How can I love Boston terriers if I’ve never taken one to piss on every tree on both sides of the street? The dog, I mean. So, while I like dogs, I can’t say with certainty that I love them, especially since they often take on the character of their owners (read neurotic here). And I’m not about to get to know the owner, unless I have my eye on someone at the dog park down the street. That reminds me of my college girlfriend’s uncle who was a priest and rode around on a motorcycle with his sheepdog sitting behind him in a milk crate. Now, that was cool.

The truth is, I’d gladly join the dog people if I lived somewhere else. But I can’t have pets at my apartment and don’t have time to fulfill another creature’s needs. If that sounds harsh, consider this. The last time I had a dog–a hyperactive Catahoula–she got so anxiety-ridden because of tension in the house that she chewed everything she could get her paws on. Thankfully, that relationship, along with the Catahoula, is long gone, but the lesson remains. To wit, let sleeping dogs lie, especially when you’re the one who has to clean up.

Image credits: feature by Anna Deli; dogs on leash by freestocks. To start off the New Year right, get your copy of The Gringo (2011)Laura Fedora (2014), and Nine Lives (2016) here. Want more? Go to Robert Brancatelli. The Brancatelli Blog is a member of The Free Media Alliance, which promotes “alternatives to software, culture, and hardware monopolies.”


  1. Aye, Robert:). Thank you for this post. I have never had a dog, but I truly love dogs…which is why I have not been courageous enough to adopt one from an animal shelter. When I look into the eyes, of any dog, really, I see such unconditional love, trust, and loyalty, another word for hope, that his spirit cuts me to the heart. It is so painful, I have to look away.
    I used to belong to an animal sanctuary in the mountains. The sanctuary, Living Free, was created by a wonderful woman, who created this wonderful environment of acres and acres of forest, whole houses created for cats, special environments for disabled dogs, but all open, open, staffed by volunteers and animal professionals and lovers.
    As a special education teacher, I often took groups of my students to Living Free, for retreat, but really for them to walk dogs with only 2 legs, blind dogs… and to sit in the large house, created in a way that cats loved, rocking chairs, snug hiding places, well, you have the picture…I would visit the Catery, after the death of each of my elderly cats, sit in a rocking chair, waiting for cats to jump into my lap, for stroking, when I was too heartbroken to adopt my next cat love from a shelter.

  2. What? You made it to age eight before injustices were inflicted on you? I think mine started at five.:-) In any case, although I’m a dogless dog lover, I do tire of the endless canine parade on our very short street – I think people come from miles around to walk their dogs here – including what appear to be professional dog walkers, with multiple leashes attached to what appears to be a baker’s dozen of dogs!

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