There was a wedding last week.

People poured into my home. Family and friends and babies, all carting tuxedos and tulle, curlers and makeup bags. There were wrapped gifts and fancy ties, and the accoutrement needed to guide a flock of babies through long days in churches and reception halls.

My dog, Drago, is 12 now. He never did love a stranger, or a crawling squeaking child. At this stage, he’s learned to be tolerant. But he handles it gravely, coming to my side when displeasure and protectiveness of his space overwhelms him.

Years ago, I’d have needed to strap on a treat pouch, put him on a leash, and give my guests careful instructions on how to behave. “Don’t pet the dog, no matter how cute he looks,” I’d say, as I rushed to erect baby gates during the feverish moments of hello. Once in a while, someone ignored me, and received a booming bark in the face for their troubles.

He was at his worst when I had a newborn, and hadn’t bothered to train him in awhile1.

One fall weekend, years ago, my extended family gathered for a reunion. While I was busily changing my daughter’s diaper in a back bedroom, a pack of family members arrived at the entrance to our airbnb. I shouted that someone needed to “hold the dog,” but no one heard me in the hullabaloo of hellos and hugs.

Nothing shifts a jovial mood like an angry dog, and I ran into the room, baby on my hip, just in time to witness my husband dragging our dog back by the collar as Drago barked his fool head off at the newcomers. My relatives stood about, like a frozen forest, faces twisted in horror. My dad was visibly angry—at me. My husband too. Why hadn’t I controlled my beast? Wasn’t I a dog trainer?

Luckily for Drago, he was never the type to hurt anyone. He just put the fear of God into anyone who dared to look him straight in the eye, or pet him atop the head. Once in awhile he’d plant his feet on a person’s chest and bark so close to their face that he fogged their glasses. His bark was loud.

There were moments when I didn’t mind. Drago’s protectiveness felt good when someone was an actual threat. When I went camping alone, I never worried for a second that someone would come into my tent. When I walked the streets of NYC at night, he kept drunkards and derelicts at bay. One neighbor, a routinely drunken older fellow who consistently made aggressive passes at me when he caught me outside alone, became irate when Drago barked at him. He demanded that I have the dog euthanized. I laughed on the inside, because Drago had done me a service. That guy deserved it. Good dog.

But the neighbor and my dad were both seeing the same dog—a scary monster.

Drago’s initial problem was spreading his efforts too wide. He barked at every intruder, as if it was his job2. To live in this human world, he had to learn to distinguish friend from foe. This is, in some ways, a difficult task since I myself do not always know a trustworthy person from a charming—but devious—one. Early in his training, I noticed that Drago tended to yodel long and hard in the face of people who were clearly untrustworthy, such as my neighbor above. But his barks were thin and short when someone was more calm and direct. Once in awhile, a person would arrive who received only a sharp sniff to the groin, and no barks at all. They passed his inspection.

Some of the things he was sensing were visible to me—he wouldn’t suffer a drunk or wobbly person. He hated rude or unpredictable body language—long hard stares, forced hugs, or fast approaches. And he was quickly wary of anyone who tried too hard, too fast to be his best friend. To be honest, I’m wary of all of these things as well, and no one has ever pretended I shouldn’t be.

Other times, he’d remain stubbornly resistant to my insistence that a particular friend was trustworthy. We could run through all of my conditioning tricks of the trade, and he’d blow them off, as if it was his duty to hold the line on this particular unsavory character. In such moments, I found myself studying the person for what was amiss. Clearly, an invisible bad omen was at play, and my dull human senses couldn’t perceive it.

I trust my dog.

And yet, there are many moments when I must ask him to stand down even when I know he’s right about someone. Sometimes, for the sake of manners alone, I have to insist that he back off of a low-key scoundrel.

For example, at every wedding I’ve ever attended, there is at least one crazy Uncle Jack. He’s the old-ish guy, propped up by the open bar, leering at guests. From time to time, dude ventures forth to “compliment” cousins and friends on their looks. He stands too close. He stares too long.

That guy deserves to be barked at.

When I discovered that our family’s version of crazy Uncle was invited to the wedding last week, I begged the groom to reconsider. He looked at me sideways, “Amanda, there are going to be people there who I don’t like too.”

He was right.

Even though Uncle Jack makes me vomit a little in my mouth, picking a fight with him on this occasion is useless. I’d have as much luck trying to convince the DJ to omit “the electric slide” or “celebration” from the playlist. Such things are a predictable part of every wedding, and the hardships must be born in silence.

Try telling Drago that.

Drago can smell far more about Uncle Jack than I can. He knows what the man had for breakfast, how many drinks he’s had, and that the man is standing too close to his primary human. But Drago can’t smell the kinship. He doesn’t know the guy is on the guest list, or that he’s Grandma Josephine’s second cousin once removed.

To get around this issue, Drago has learned to check in with me. If we agree that the person is a threat, I cue him to go ahead and bark (a cue that pleases him to the moon and back). If we disagree, which is more common, I tell him the person is a friend.

As my house filled with guests, all the Uncle Jacks of the family emerged from the woodwork. Time and again, Drago returned to my side, leaning in with his questions. Once, in particular, I had to tell him firmly “he’s a friend,” and Drago threw me a dagger with his eyes that would have pierced an ice block. But then he slumped onto his mat, and resigned himself to trust my judgement—shoulders slightly tense, jaw clenched.

He changes his tune when a high chair comes out. He remembers it from my daughter’s younger days. Vigilantly, he posts up on his mat, scanning for manna. At each shower of treats, he races about, bumping shins as he snorts up every scrap, before resuming his post on his mat.

But Drago gets neglected during a wedding. In my eagerness to host well, I move about the house constantly. Here we need pillow cases, there we need water glasses. Someone’s looking for a hair dryer. We need an extra chair on the screen porch.

My dog follows me from room to room for a while. Eventually, he tires of the yo-yo pattern and takes up a central position near the stairs. But his routine has been muddled. Feeding times go off center. Walks are few.

On the morning of the wedding, I realize I am not prepared. My speech isn’t finished. My dressy shoes feel tight. The hour is early, and the babes are waking. The house fills with the smells of coffee and the murmur of voices. I print out my speech and grab Drago’s leash. “Let’s go for a walk,” I tell him, and relief floods his eyes.

Without a word to anyone, I slip on my barefoot shoes and pull open the back door. Drago dashes out, wiggling his hips in an encumbered way—working out the creakiness of age. He lumbers down the back steps, and circles the yard—clearing it of intruders before we head off.

We walk together in the early morning fog, him sniffing the world, and me talking to myself. I speak to the trees, testing phrases about the bride and groom to see what fits. He takes in the stillness, and the symphony of smells that plays on the air. On the walk, there is no one he must tune out, no one he must avoid.

For this hour, we are free of the rules of social order3.

Stealing this moment with my dog made the remainder of the day possible. Our batteries of patience and restraint were fully charged, when we returned. He was ready to suffer a day of chaos and the comings and goings of strangers, punctuated by prolonged periods of solitude while we humans shuttled to the wedding and reception. I was prepared to deliver on my promise to shower the couple with affection and ceremony, and to squeeze into idiotic dress shoes4.

There was a dog at the wedding too—his name was Atlas.

Atlas was the polar opposite of Drago, in personality. He was a large, beefy pit mix with a wide grin and a heavy gait. He wore a thick collar, inscribed with his name, and was usually affixed to a beautiful brunette—partner to the best man. He worked his way through the crowd, grinning and wiggling past most attempts to engage. He kept it brief, no need to belabor an introduction, unless someone landed a scratch just so, then he would lean in or roll over, grunting his assent.

Most dogs struggle to relax in a crowd of human revelers.
But not Atlas.

That dog was in his element. I inquired after his upbringing, and was told that it was a mystery. He’d been friendly and jovial from the day they adopted him, at the age of three-ish. Just as Drago never knew an instant friend, Atlas never knew a stranger.

Atlas has a gift that allows him to come along with his humans to any event, large or small. That is—ill human manners don’t bother him. He is able to get along just fine in a room full of people who couldn’t distinguish a polite dog-greeting from a bundle of flowers tossed at their face. To Drago, a tossed bouquet punctuated by shouts and applause is a signal that something is amiss. To Atlas, it’s just those silly humans goofing off again. This immunity to human shenanigans is a free pass to riding along during human events. The best man, in fact, has another dog who was better off left home alone, just like Drago.

But Drago is called bad for being reactive, while Atlas is called good for being friendly. We humans created these judgements—like folks judging me when I got fed up and kicked off my shoes before the ceremony (But I never did tell Uncle Jack where to shove it).

The key difference is that I had a choice. I could go barefoot.

Drago has to go to his mat.

But no one will stop him from throwing daggers with his eyes.

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Gaping Tourists

1Any dog-loving tourist, from my neck of the woods, who winds their way through the magical streets of Paris notices a standout difference between our culture’s dog happenings and theirs. That is, a hefty portion of the dogs in Paris take to the streets with their humans sans leashes. Over our teensy tiny cups of steaming espresso, we Americans gasp, “Whose dog do you think that is?”
And, then we exclaim “I can’t even tell!”

We are amazed that the dogs don’t wander in front of cars!
We gape when a dog places his front paws fully atop a bar (where other humans are eating) to engage in a game of “find the treat” with the bartender.
That is, folks like me gape.
The locals don’t even blink.

Witnessing such blissful freedom provokes a bit of moaning from yours truly. Why have we over-restricted our dogs back home? Why can’t we be more like Paris? Many-a-tourist has said the same. I had a client once who lived half the year in southern France and became so frustrated with the limitations of U.S. public spaces that she began to flagrantly disregard the rules back home. Her dog went with her everywhere, and woe be to the waitress or cashier who dared to challenge her.

What a glorious rebel!

But they did challenge her—a lot. Sometimes she was thrown out. Once, at least, the police stepped in to issue a citation.

And that’s the difference that interests me most.

Off Leash is Legal There, Right?

Did you know that it’s illegal to have a dog off leash in Paris2? Their rules for off leash, in fact, are a good deal stricter than the laws set down on paper in NYC. Dogs in Paris must, legally, be kept on leash at all times in outdoor public spaces, unless it is explicitly permitted (such as a dog park). In New York we require leashes too, and it is mandated that they can’t be longer than 6 feet, but we also have wide open off leash hours in many areas of the parks (early morning and late night). Both cities have fines for offenders, and NYC’s fines are more expensive, but Paris piles on additional rules for “category 1 and 2” dogs. Those are breed-specific laws that demand a muzzle and leash at all times for both categories, and they ban category 1 dogs from traveling on public transit or chilling in public spaces (other than roads) at all. Yikes.

So much for Paris being all laissez faire about the whole thing.

So, how is it possible that there are so many free-running dogs about the place?

The Human With Terrible Recall

I took a walk along the Canal Saint-Martin, drinking in the dogs and their humans.
Pretty Pomeranians prancing alongside an incongruously large and clumsy man.
A scruffy mutt covered in rags, sleeping atop his street-hugging human.

Weaving his way through a long narrow park, a husky-looking dog took his paces near a patch of exercise equipment. Nearby, three lanky lads held fast to some chin-up bars, competing to see who could dangle the longest. They didn’t seem to belong to the dog. Further along, a determined woman perspired through a set of deep lunges. She might be his, but she didn’t spare him a glance. No one else was afoot.

Unsure, I walked on. I found myself a half hour’s stroll later lounging casually on the steps of a canal bridge taking in the noonday air. Parisians plunked down with sandwiches, falafel, sushi. They murmured in melodic, incomprehensibly smooth French conversation. A trio of young jazz players set up on the corner. Music ricocheted off the tall, ornate buildings. Rooftops stretched into the distance.

Further down the canal, a small gathering of young men stripped off their shirts and began leaping off a bridge into the greenish water3. Their distant whoops added to the percussion. I may have spent hours thus, seated in the speckled shade atop an ornate canal bridge—enveloped in the untoppable magic of a perfect Parisian summer lunch—when I saw him again, the human-free dog! He was tall and confident, striding down the sidewalk like he owned the place. So far afield from our first encounter, I began to wonder if he was adrift without his person. Suddenly, he halted. Stopped and looked back as though waiting for something. I scanned the scene. Was he looking to his human? In the direction of his gaze a young couple stood, staring at the musicians and snapping photos. A smartly dressed woman leaned on a wall. A man sat on the bar of his bike, one sandal hanging from the toe of his foot as he rocked the bike back and forth—enraptured by the music.

Not a soul seemed attached to this dog. But the dog remained, frozen and staring. The musicians finished their piece. A smattering of muffled applause. The bike man put his hand to his heart in appreciation and bowed his head. His smile reflected the peace in my own heart. He raised his eyes and caught the look of the husky. With a light chuckle, he gestured to the dog, who re-traced his own steps to approach, and bopped the bike man’s hand. They took each other in, connecting briefly, then—shaking off the moment—the dog trotted back to the sidewalk’s edge. Just then, his nose caught the scent of a female dog approaching. He pulled in the air in short bursts, sizing her up as she approached, with puffy hair flowing all around her. A circle and sniff ensued, complicated by the leash clipped to the female’s collar. The attached human, also female, struck up a conversation with the bike man. It was a momentary distraction, and the fluffy females continued on their ramble. At which, the dog resumed staring at his human, impatient to move on.

The bike man continued to soak in the music for a spell, but in the end, the dog pressed the man with his vigilant gaze — to tear himself away from the music. They moved together as if on cue, neither glancing at the other to keep pace, as they trotted and rolled along. I was impressed by the way the dog hugged the edge of the bike path, certainly the safest route for his four paws. No cue. No leash. An entirely nonverbal melding of heart and mind.

An hour or so later, I sat at a café table, enjoying a coffee, and adding details to my notes. No sooner did I write the words “heart and mind” than I caught a glimpse of a similar dog ambling along the sidewalk at a quick clip. I looked up and gasped! Not a similar dog—the very same dog. He whizzed by me before I could register my astonishment, and then quickly behind him followed the biking man. I have no idea who decides their route, but I must assume they spend the better part of the day wandering the streets of Paris together.

Those criminals!

Getting Out of the Shit.

Although the bike man is committing a crime, no one seems to mind. They don’t tell him he’s doing something illegal. They don’t scoff or sneer, or reel their own dogs in with an angry huff as they pass. The duo are managing their own life, and they are doing so safely, so they are left alone.

In American culture, we want the boundaries of freedom and safety governed. We have them written down on paper and call out infractions to the letter of the law. When the laws are wrong, we must go through the arduous process of changing the legislation, and we are uncomfortable with casual rule-breaking even when it makes sense. Paris displays the opposite: They govern on paper, yes, but they don’t seem to mind rule breaking when it’s all good. The law is there to protect against problems, it’s not there to stop people from living well. So…infractions that don’t cause problems, seem to be tolerated.

It’s a casual tolerance. This is an odd thing to say, since I think there is a stereotype that paints French people as persnickety and uptight. Like the time my husband committed the transgression of attempting to tear his baguette in two to make it fit into his backpack for our picnic and the boulangère (that’s a baker) scoffed and grabbed it forcefully from his hands. She laid it atop a cutting board and sliced it properly with a knife, re-bagged it and handed it back to him with the sort of admonishing glare one might receive from their mother.

Is that uptight? Perhaps. But we all benefit, universally, from eating a baguette in a particular way. It pays to be uptight about quality, and I appreciate that baker. She taught me something.

Leash laws, on the other hand, don’t apply universally in the way that eating well does. Eating well is always beneficial. Restraining a dog is not always beneficial. But we have to have the law for those times when dogs and their free movements are a problem, right? So, how do the Parisians work their way around such conundrums?

To explain such rule transgressions, the French offer us a delightfully rich lexicon of phrases and corresponding concepts that can be (very) loosely translated as “It’s okay to break the rules.”4

But what we’re talking about with dogs and rule-breaking specifically measures up to three common phrases. The authorities practice “tolérance”—they tolerate rule-breaking that isn’t hurting anyone. The bystanders are closing their eyes to it (“fermer les yeux”), and the culprits can be said to practice Système D.

Système D is about finding ways to untangle ourselves from systemic problems. It is usually applied to MacGyvering a situation—like pulling out a paperclip to fix a switchboard malfunction. It’s the art of resourcefulness. Système D is often translated using swear words—“Finding clever ways to get out of the merde [shit].” Or my favorite crude definition, “Unfucking yourself.”

Personally and professionally, I think that requiring dogs to live their entire lives on the end of a six-foot rope outdoors when they are built to roam is an ill-met pile of dung that we modern dog lovers have inherited. Folks who manage to cultivate a relationship with their dog that defies these rules without jeopardizing anyone’s health and happiness are truly spectacular Débrouillards (that’s the D - it means a person who is great at untangling themselves).

Are There Any Bad Dogs in Paris?

As I read up on Parisian dog culture, I waded through a lot of blogs and message boards where tourists raved about how well-behaved all of the dogs are in Paris. I get this. I’ve seen lots of well-behaved dogs too. But I take issue with these off-target declarations.

No matter how much time I spend sitting outside observing Parisian dogs, it’s a small sample. I cannot justify a claim that Parisian dogs are better behaved than the dogs of New York City—not without more data coupled with an arbitrarily strict definition of what qualifies as “good behavior.” Besides, it’s not a competition (right?). The question isn’t, “which society is better,” it’s “what can we learn from each other?”

From interviews with locals and colleagues, I know that there are plenty of dogs with serious behavior issues living in Paris. Most of them are on leashes, and they come out at slower times. There are also folks who flagrantly allow their dogs to be rude to people, and fail to clean up after them. Those folks don’t get credit for practicing Système D. They are abusers of the tolerance that exists, and they are the sorts who might destroy it. I’m told that this is what the laws are written for—those moments when there is a problem.

Learning To Live vs. Training to Heel

There’s another French concept that might help us out here. It’s connected to the baguette moment. They call it “savoir-vivre.” Literally, it translates as “knowing how to live.” Knowing how to live means moving well in society, with good manners and an ability to achieve social harmony. Dogs in Paris who possess savoir-vivre, are welcome to walk freely amongst us, off the record. And, of course, the humans attached to the dogs must have savoir-vivre as well.

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How on earth did the biking man, and the other Parisians whose dogs can navigate the streets so calmly achieve such gorgeous harmony? There was no treat pouch on his hip, or shock collar in his hand. We can’t credit mother nature, as we can with free-roaming street dogs in The Gambia, for honing the instincts of the dog population.

Clearly, the pair (human and dog) have a well-founded relationship. It takes time, attention, and opportunity (provided by tolerant neighbors) to cultivate such manners and harmony. This is true of all examples of savoir-vivre. One does not stumble upon it by taking an online course in puppy socialization. It must be calibrated. When a dog wanders too far afield, the human must give feedback. The dog adjusts. When the human strays, the dog too must respond, and the human adjusts. In fact, that is precisely what I witnessed in the dog’s prolonged stare.

Teaching a dog to exist with us in this way is a mindset shift away from formal, step-by-step, dog training, and toward cultivating a harmonious relationship with someone we love. It’s a conversation that begins at birth and continues through every single interaction. Humans and dogs who build strong relationships are held together by an invisible rubber band—a gravitational forcefield.

Breakfasting a few days later, by Canal de l’Ourcq, I watched joggers and bikers whiz by. Many of the joggers were dogs, most off leash. It was not easy to discern who was with which human. I made a game of it as I sipped my café and ate my oeuf (egg).

The dogs kept an easy pace, though their accompanying humans were breathless from exertion. When the humans slowed, the dogs took time to stop and sniff a post or a bit of stray muck on the cobbles. Mostly, it was easy to match them up. One tiny greyhound, I guessed by his orbit, seemed attached to a sweaty fellow in a shiny blue soccer jersey. But then he stopped to sniff a post at length and the blue man continued on. Minutes passed, and the greyhound remained engrossed. The blue man was long gone. I must have guessed wrong, so I looked around for additional options. I found none. Suddenly, the bike path was deserted. The dog lifted his leg and marked the post enthusiastically. He gazed down the path. Suddenly, as though he had reached the terminal stretch of a rubber band, he took off like a shot—racing down the path in a blur. Such speed can be achieved by few dogs. Only a greyhound can sail over the pavement with such grace. He was rocketing back toward the man in blue. It seemed I was correct after all.

Gravity.

Y’all, would it be overly cutesy to call the rest paw notes? Or tail notes? It would, wouldn’t it?
Alright. Fine. We’ll keep it human-centric just this once.

Foot Notes:

Most of the wandering dogs I observe around the world aren’t strays.* They’re exactly where they belong. It took me a long time to understand why that distinction matters, and even longer to explain it to anyone without sounding unhinged. Folks think I’m nuts. But only because the wanderer in question is a dog.

The free-roaming dogs I observed in the Gambia, for example, weren’t lost or inherently woebegone. They were born free and will live their entire lives in the wilderness they evolved to inhabit — in close association with human beings.

They gravitate toward spots where food is plentiful and humans don’t mind their presence. That’s why I like to visit fish markets in foreign worlds.

I’m not talking about the refrigerated aisle in a western grocery store, where everything is carefully sterilized and slapped onto styrofoam trays. In some places, there are no rolls of plastic wrap or lab-coat-clad federal inspectors monitoring hair-netted employees prepping fish on stainless steel tables. Dogs don’t belong in sterile places.

But they do belong in small harbors by the ocean, where skiffs coast into the docks, and barefoot humans plop over the sides with their early morning catch. Dogs in such spaces wait patiently near leather-faced men who lounge on the ramshackle docks mending nets the way their father’s father taught them.

Recently, my nephew and sister-in-law took me to such a place on the coast of The Gambia.

I smell the market long before I see it. Gazing up from the dash of our dust-covered vehicle, I see miles and miles of glorious beaches—a tourist’s dream view. But human tourists, if they were ever to come here, would be chased away by the fetid odor of rotting fish guts. Years of salt, sea, and the selling of fish have cemented the rich folds of odor that greet the nostrils.

I imagine, for dogs, that the smell is a neon sign advertising the location of victuals. We take shelter from the beating sun under a ramshackle construction of beams bolted together to support a wide roof of corrugated steel. Underneath, a collection of castaway chest freezers are lined up in rows, far from any power source. The sea air has rusted their steel shells to a rough reddish-brown, pocked with sharp holes and caked up patches, like barnacles. Despite their appearance, the freezers are padlocked shut, like so many treasure chests strewn on the sand of a deserted island.

The contents of the freezers are precious, and they are guarded by barefoot folks in brightly colored linen clothes. One person has a scarf wrapped about her face, and has curled up atop her freezer for an afternoon nap. Another, stands at a cock-eyed table with a sharp knife, preparing a catch that arrived late this morning. Everyone stares at the mismatched group that has just walked in.

My sister-in-law speaks rapidly in Wolof to a young man standing next to one of the rusty treasure chests. He snaps open the padlock and throws the lid high. It is held in place by a rope, stretched just long enough to allow the lid to open. Without it, I surmise, the lid would fly off the backside, loosed from its hinges. Inside, the wares—stacks and stacks of fish and ice. A few odd holes have been patched with duct tape. My sister gestures to a particular fish—she seems to know what’s what, and the man plunges his bare hands into the cooler to seize the pale pink flesh. He holds it aloft for her inspection, expressing his amazement at the quality, the size, the freshness. They haggle.

I leave the task of inspecting for quality to my sister, she’s a woman accustomed to the task, and knows what to look for better than the finest inspectors back home. I turn my attention to my own expertise—the dogs.

I make my way around the rows of freezers, searching with my eyes. Then I see them. They are napping in identical patches of shade around the skirts of the tiny market. All of them are in the same position, lying on their sides with their legs squarely stretched out in front of them and their heads tucked slightly under.

They sleep deeply, in a row, as if they had each signed up for their nap space before they arrived this afternoon. I imagine there was some negotiation, or that there is a hierarchy of premium and economy spaces. I come as close as I dare without disturbing them, taking the chance to observe their short fur, and soft bellies—freely exposed to allow the ocean breeze to circulate and keep them cool. They are all shades of red and blonde, blending in with the sandy roads and beaches.

I turn back toward the interior of the market and spot another dog, sitting patiently at a short distance from the man cleaning fish. His agenda is obvious, and his facial expression matches the wide-eyed upward gaze of begging dogs all over the world. Evolution herself designed this look to provoke the optimal human response—we think it’s cute, and cute gets fed.

“Do the fisherfolk feed the dogs?” I ask my nephew. He grew up here.

He squints at me and says “…no fish seller is gonna throw a dog a $10 fish instead of selling it…many locals can barely afford breakfast or a meal for themselves. It’s quite hard for them to have that mentality—of feeding a stray dog.”

If cuteness alone won’t produce free food, I wonder what other clever super powers nature has granted these dogs over the centuries—a hardy stomach tolerant of rotting fish flesh perhaps? The dogs wouldn’t congregate here without a resource. The shade isn’t their only comfort, and the scraps that do not hold value for the locals are bound to be plentiful at particular times of the day.

I notice some of the other humans observing me the same way that I watch the dogs—like an object of interest. I suspect they note my attraction to the dogs the way I note the dogs’ interest in shade patches. I imagine they think me an odd western lady, fascinated by something as banal and ordinary as a beach-roaming dog. They might even think I’m a fool with mixed-up priorities.

They cannot know that at the heart of my fascination is awe over the contrast between the lives of these dogs and those I am familiar with back home. Where I come from, a free-roaming beach dog would create a massive scene. Folks would exclaim, “who’s dog is this?” And search frantically for the owner. Or, they’d point to signs declaring that dogs are forbidden on this beach. Or, else, they’d strive to catch the poor creature, and send him to a rescue to find him a proper home. No one would look at a dog behind a rusty freezer, licking his paws, and think he belonged there.

But he does. He belongs there as surely as the fish mongers, sea birds, and invisible crabs. They are all a part of a working community that catches and feeds on fish each day—day after day, going back hundreds, if not thousands of years.

*It took enormous strength of will not to open this piece with a butchering of Tolkien’s famous (but oft misquoted) line: “Not all those who wander are lost,” from The Fellowship of the Ring. It would be literary sacrilege to rewrite it as I’d like for this piece—which is, “Not all dogs who wander are lost either.” So, I’m burying it in a footnote.

_{Disclaimer: Talking about poop scoop laws requires us to go for a jog on the euphemism treadmill. There is a delightfully large arsenal of words and phrases for poop, and I did my duty on this one. We’re really rolling it in.
Enjoy.}

There was a woman who frequented the dog park in Manhattan, bent on single-handedly ending all poop-related infractions. While her dog roamed, she stood sentry. Perched atop a bench with an eagle-eye view of the arena, she watched diligently for the moment a dog, any dog, circled and sniffed. At the inciting instant, she shifted her gaze to scan the humans within range. Which of them would reach for a bag? Who would take responsibility for the animal about to squat? If her squinting eyes found no purchase—If there was no human industriously sprinting toward the dog, gloved hand at the ready, she vaulted from the bench and strode toward the dog herself.

She wasn’t headed that way to clean the mess. No—she meant to sound the alarm. Before a single plop of dung could be deposited on the ground, she held her arm high in the sky and wailed at the top of her voice, gesticulating wildly at the dog in question. “Whose dog is this!? Whose dog is this!?” She screamed over and over again until all of the chatter in the park had ceased. Was a dog trapped? Distraught? In need of emergency medical attention? No. They were simply leaving their calling card, that is if they could recover from the shocking disruption.

We dogcare folks called her the poop snitch.*

She is one of many city dwellers who take fecal matters into their own hands. Other folks are more passive, electing to sneer and whisper pejoratives under their breath when they spot an offender—or to call 311 and submit a report when they notice a recurrence of piles. 311 is a public service in New York City. It’s an incredibly useful way to get information of all sorts. It’s also a panic button for the vigilantes, justice-seekers, and whingers of the city. Once something is complained about often enough, it gets some attention from politicians, which kind of makes sense—even if the data is skewed toward the malcontents.

An uptick in springtime 311 complaints about canine contributions to the pavement has the NYC government in a renewed tizzy over the issue. There has been a poop scoop law on the books since 1978**, and folks can be fined $250 per offense. It has always been impossible to enforce, of course, since a city can hardly afford to pay a horde of officers to wander around catching people out. Community vigilance and public shaming is, actually, the engine that keeps the order.

I find that the majority of New Yorkers are obsessive about their obligation. They make an exaggerated show of reaching for a bag long before their dog finishes their business. Even those of us who are hyper-responsible about the act, understand the importance not just of doing our duty, but of ensuring that folks around us can observe our dedication.

There are, on the other hand, folks who don’t pick up.
I call them, as sweetly as I can muster, “selfish pricks.”

It’s not just about leaving something for another human to step in—as if that weren’t bad enough. It’s also about the stupefyingly inconsiderate places that such rare mongrel humans allow dogs to lighten their load. For example, at my husband’s hair salon on West 82nd street, a wrought-iron railing lines the stairs down to his basement entrance. From time to time, a selfish prick will pass by and allow their dog to lift a leg to the iron bars—delivering a streaming shower of piss on the freshly coiffed humans exiting the door down below.

That’s a bad day in the urban jungle, y’all.

And once one dog has marked a bar, all the hounds of the hood will aim to follow suit, in incrementally higher swipes of spray, as they stake their claim to this particular city block. No one should allow their dog to let loose on an active staircase. Such mishaps are the fuel that drives poop vigilantes into the streets, scouring for miscreants.

I have a friend who is a selfish prick. Sometimes I wonder, truly, why we are friends, but we’ve known each other since we were children and they do have some redeeming qualities. My dad used to say, “if nothing else, a person can always serve as a bad example.” In fact, spending time with this particular friend is an immersion study in alien value-systems. There are gaps in logic—willfully ignored—that allow them to act on their own vain interests to the obvious detriment of the community around them. They weave intricate narratives designed to support their greedy purposes, and deftly adjust the story as the circumstances change, not to become better people, but to further entrench themselves in their choices.

I am 100% certain that this friend would leave a steaming mound of logs directly in front of a building entrance if they were certain no one was looking. What’s more, if a neighbor caught them and made a scene about it, I think my friend would take it as a challenge, searching for ways to turn the tables of attack onto the other person. They are the sort of human who would respond by deliberately encouraging their dog to soil that particular human’s stoop at every opportunity from that day forth.

Let’s call my friend Daphne.

When I want to devise a solution to a problem created by selfishness, I think of her and wonder What Would Daphne Do in response to my idea. Let’s try this tactic as we analyze the reforms on the table (“laid over in committee”) in NYC right now.

There is talk of increasing community education. This means, we’re going to post more signs, create pun-laden social media campaigns, and the like. What Would Daphne Do? Daphne won’t respond to this at all. She knows she should clean up after her dog, but doing the right thing for the sake of those around her isn’t a powerful motivator in her life. She’s the sort of person who notices when a cashier rings her up for $5 (even though the price tag reads $50), and lets it slide. Instead of feeling guilty or concerned about the fate of the cashier or the business, she gleefully marvels at her good fortune! It’s the same when her dog leaves a dump on the sidewalk. If no one notices it, she feels lucky and clever that she got away with not scooping it. Folks who might step in it later should watch where they’re walking, she thinks, and besides—the building adjacent is responsible for cleaning the sidewalks so she shouldn’t have to.

She’s wrong of course. But educating her is pointless.

There is another proposal that would install poop bag dispensers on city waste bins. Running short on bags is a woe that has befallen the best of us. There are only so many ways to creatively clean crap off the sidewalk without a bag, and all of them are risky. Typically, though, nearby dog lovers are more than happy to donate one of theirs. We’ve all been there. The trouble, of course, is that the bag dispensers will all be empty when we need them. The Daphnes of the world will take them—all of them. After all, she pays her taxes, and she didn’t make these rules. She probably thinks that the city should provide bags. Regardless of whether there is a bag available, Daphne still won’t scoop when no one is looking.

Another idea being floated would require a city staffer to show up on any block that receives more than three 311 complaints in a short span of time. The staffer would either address the issue or persuade building owners/managers to do so. This would certainly help with clean up, but it will also encourage Daphne to leave more droppings behind. Never has Daphne ever been inspired to do something that was designated as someone else’s job.

So…what would work??

Honestly, I think the law on the books is already useful. There is currently a $250 fine for failing to scoop. That’s a deterrent, and it motivates folks who are on the fence. Full blown Daphne personalities, on the other hand, can flout the law anytime there is no obvious authority in their midst. It’s like speeding tickets—folks who like to speed only slow down when they see a squad car. Positive punishment can be amplified by masking context clues such that the punishment becomes ever possible. That is, dress an officer in plain clothes and have them lounge on a stoop in a problem area once or twice a year. If Daphne thinks that any person at any time could fine her, she’ll behave whenever there are people nearby. She will still let it lie when no one is around, because positive punishment does nothing for motivation when the potential for punishment evaporates.

I also think that placing more usable trashcans would be more productive than installing bag dispensers. The places that I notice the most landmines tend to be places that are far from trash bins. Moderate Daphnes who are perfectly comfortable holding their noses during a fast scoop and toss are more reluctant when it comes to strolling merrily along with a swinging plastic bag of brownies like a kid fresh from a penny candy store.

I have another idea too—a spring clean up. Perhaps it could be led by city officials with the support of local volunteers. Cuz, here’s the thing—there are a lot of hidden payloads in the snow and no amount of legislation is going to change that. Yes, the Daphnes of the world ignore more droppings when it snows, in part because it’s easier to get away with when their dog is hidden in a snow bank. But, they aren’t the only ones. Folks who would not normally fail in their duty decide to let it go just this once when there is a blizzard bearing down on them. And even the most righteous excrement scoopers have failed to be able to find the specimen in a massive heap of snow from time to time. Those forces combine to create a frozen miasma within every snow bank. There is no way to prevent the disgusting swamp of pollution that is the urban spring melt. We should just clean it up. This will have no effect on the Daphnes of the world, but it would drastically reduce the mess, and the 311 complaints that relate only to the melt would disappear.

Of course, the most effective method of ensuring change to the Daphnes of the world is a little behavior change technique called “modeling.” Doing the right thing, especially in front of a Daphne, tends to move the needle more than chastising, shaming, or any other form of aversive control.

But it can be difficult to stomach in practice.

As I was writing this blog, I happened to take a stroll with my daughter (she’s 8) and our dog. My kid, who has accompanied me on many-a dog walk, is well aware of my usual pick up policy (kids her age are awesome at cataloging and enforcing rules): That is, if I’m walking my dog, and I have enough bags, I collect the neglected piles I see even if they aren’t ours. I can’t think of a better kindness that I can offer to the world. I imagine the stranger who will pass through later, unaware that I have saved them from a foul encounter on the sidewalk. I helped them, even if they don’t know it. It’s good karma—like holding a door for a stressed out parent wielding a stroller.

Why not?

But we weren’t walking in our usual neighborhood on the Upper West side—where such an opportunity arises only rarely. We were further afield in the Bronx, and our dog sniffed his way to the perfect spot—a long stretch of grass and dirt that seemed to be the designated toilet for the entire neighborhood. It was ideal—grassy and fragrant with the smell of excrement. Why? Because it was dappled with abandoned offerings like sprinkles atop a cupcake.

Y’all, it was nasty.

Our dog deposited his specimen, and I dutifully scooped both his and another that was close by. I felt good about this, and moved to walk on. My daughter scowled. “Maaaama!” She scolded. “You didn’t get all of them.”

Never once had I regretted teaching her good manners until this moment.

I tried to wiggle out of it, “There isn’t enough room in this bag, sweetheart.”

She pressed her lips together and looked at me sideways. It was a look I recognized—like staring into a mirror. “You have more bags in your pocket, don’t you?”

I grimaced.
I paused.
I considered what each of my options would teach my kid.

And that’s how I wound up with four full bags of someone else’s shit, clomping with a scowl across three city blocks to the nearest trashcan, while my angelic daughter danced proudly beside me.

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Footnotes and Sidebars:

Footnote:
*We did not actually call her a snitch. It rhymed though.

Sidebar:
I omitted one additional proposal that is currently on the table. It would create a compost system for dog waste and add compostable bags and receptacles at dog parks. I think that’s super cool, even if it would do nothing to change the quantity of stray poop on sidewalks.

Further Reading:
Check out Michael Brandow’s book: New York’s Poop Scoop Law: Dogs, the Dirt, and Due Process.

And here are some links:
AKC
Gothamist
NYT
NYT2

The actual legislation being proposed is here.

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I came across an irate woman ranting about the flack she catches for refusing to hug dogs in the street. To her mind, people are over the top in their affection for dogs, and they insist she should share their enthusiasm. When she declines a dog’s overtures for affection, and asks their humans to restrain the dog from approaching, her neighbors hurl scorn in her direction.

She feels guilt. Then annoyance. Then anger.
Why can’t her neighbors support her need to hate dogs. It’s her right!

“Normalize disliking dogs!” She types in all caps. She can’t understand what’s wrong with people.

The problem?
She’s shouting “normalize water!” from a kayak in the center of the Atlantic.

In our culture, it is already normal to dislike dogs.

Laws and rules in public spaces are almost universally crafted to protect the folks who dislike dogs. We have leash laws, requiring us to keep our dogs tethered just a few feet from our person. There are signs in every retail window, declaring dogs unwelcome, and our health codes make dogs out to be disease-transmitting tempests that shouldn’t come within a hundred yards of a plate of food.

We also forbid dogs from places where one might expect to find dogs, such as camp sites, and publicly owned forests. In city parks, dogs are typically relegated to the worst possible real estate, fenced into dusty and filthy postage stamp enclosures, far from the prettier aspects of the place. And believe me when I tell you that people complain hard about dogs being granted even these tiny allotments.

In New York City, for example, dog runs inside city parks are the only places that are not cleaned and maintained by the park service. Everything from skate parks to children’s playgrounds are cleaned routinely by park staff. But not dog parks. The parks consider dog run upkeep to be the responsibility of the dog owners themselves. This might make sense if dog ownership was a rare past time, like adopting a large reptile snatched from a rain forest. But it isn’t. Humans have walked in tandem with dogs for nigh on 30,000 years and approximately half of the homes in this country keep dogs, so cleaning the dog run ought to take precedence over providing for less common modern hobbies like skateboarding or pickle ball.

Still, I am encouraged by the scornful response of the dog lovers in this story. There was a time, not long ago, when they would have shamed themselves and insisted on doing the woman’s dry cleaning. They would call me in tears, distraught about their dog’s behavior and threatening to return the poor pup to the shelter whence she came.

Sometimes, nowadays, I can feel the tide turning. More people expect their neighbors to welcome their dogs as part of their family. Maybe it is becoming decidedly abnormal to dislike dogs, and our laws and community rules haven’t caught up yet. In truth, I hope so. I hope folks who hate dogs are outliers, caught in a refrain that has expired. If we want to gain access to more public spaces, this paradigm shift is essential, and we can see it playing out in governing bodies.

A judge in Brooklyn ruled that a dog who was hit by a car should be considered immediate family, and the same is being considered for family law in some parts of the country—mostly to help with the issues that arise over dog custody-rights in divorce proceedings. In Europe, countries are creating laws declaring dogs sentient beings. Connecticut and Maine both passed bills indicating personhood* in animals.

If governing bodies are shifting to consider sentience and family-membership for dogs, we should celebrate. Truth is, although these instances are evidence of progress, they are still big headlines precisely because such considerations are unusual and rare. For the most part, dogs are still considered owned objects (if found in homes) and pests (if found in the streets). We are a far cry from loving dogs in both word and deed, and any human who dislikes dogs is safe from having to associate with them anywhere other than the sidewalk.

In the dog-disliker’s defense, it’s pretty rude to allow a dog that we are responsible for to climb a scowling stranger’s legs and solicit a hug. The woman who dislikes dogs does have a right to personal space. If we dog-lovers want to convince the community to allow dogs and dog-lovers more freedom, the burden of responsibility will be on us. Can dogs co-exist near dog-haters in modern times? For that, they’ll need to know how to work within our rules of etiquette.

That’s why I still train dogs. Teaching them manners creates opportunities to thrive, and skirts around the moods of the dog-dislikers. We’ll never be able to understand a dog-hater’s bewildering disdain for a cross-species relationship that dwells in the realm of the miraculous, but if we keep it all polite in shared spaces, perhaps they can re-normalize the presence of dogs.

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*Personhood is a slippery and confusing term, so I disagree with the word choice itself, but I’m not willing to sacrifice the freedoms of dogs on the altar of semantics. In addition, even though some of the laws mentioned here seem to grant personhood, they tend to have qualifications that diminish their intent. Legally, granting an entity personhood means that the entity has rights in a court of law. They can be a victim of violence, for example, where property cannot. Clearly, granting dogs personhood would be a good thing if it means the dogs have some rights and protections legally, and are no longer considered property. On a related note, implying that the only entities in this world that deserve rights must be called “persons” is fundamentally flawed. My own daughter, when she was five, pointed out that I should not talk about our dog’s “personality” because he is a dog and he has “dogality.” She is completely correct about this, even though the world “dogality” sounds kind of silly.

Dog laws on the table in NY:
https://www.nysenate.gov/legislation/bills/2025/A9024
https://www.nycbar.org/reports/support-for-the-recognition-of-animal-sentience

Stat Citations:

https://www.forbes.com/advisor/pet-insurance/pet-ownership-statistics/
https://www.census.gov/library/stories/2024/11/family-households.html

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I’m gearing up to head to Senegal and The Gambia to do some field observations, and my family and I headed over to a clinic to get our Yellow Fever Vaccinations. It’s required when traveling between the two countries, and it may well be prudent. We were ushered into a warmly decorated office with three chairs positioned in front of a massive computer screen.

The nurse pulled up the first page of, what turned out to be, a slide presentation on every illness known to man. My 8-year-old daughter’s eyes drew wide with horror at the cluster of images displayed on the screen. A man—face grim with pain—leaned backward to show his neck and chest, covered in a terrible red rash. A woman—skin yellowed and sallow—looked down in depression. Pus-filled sores oozed.

Quickly, and I rarely do this, I shoved my phone into my daughter’s hands. “Watch something,” I said, hoping I was quick enough to prevent nightmares.

My husband and I suffered through slide after slide warning us of the terrible diseases that could befall us on this trip. We were, after all, and she didn’t want to say it this way, “going to a third-world country.”

Once we were good and certain that we’d die a tragic death by the side of a cess pool, clutching contaminated street meat in our naive tourist hands, the nurse offered some relief. She had at her convenient disposal an array of solutions! We could inject this vaccine and those other ones too. There were pills and sprays, and powders that could be sprinkled upon food.

Then she showed us the price tag.
For the low price of $6,500 we could be “safe.”

I hate this shit.

But we’re all familiar with it these days, aren’t we?

Many years ago, I hired a fledgling trainer who believed that a new client was “standing there with their wallet open.” She was a decent trainer, a little green, but charming with humans and fun with dogs. I noticed right away that the session packages she was selling to clients were too large for the behaviors being treated. I suspected she was struggling with training techniques. So, I sat down with her to discuss ways that she could get results more efficiently, and save her clients time and money.

She looked at me aghast. Didn’t I want her to sell more training? How was she supposed to make any money (she was paid a percentage) if I made her sell fewer sessions? I tried to explain to her that when a person hires an expert to help them with something they know very little about, that expert has a moral obligation to protect that person from anyone or anything that would take advantage of their gap in knowledge. She just stared at me.

We never did see eye to eye, and she left my company and opened her own. She and many trainers like her are out there in the community trying to sell as much training as possible to people who don’t have any way of knowing how much training they actually need. They fan the flames of fear, and capitalize on vulnerability. Such con artists are difficult for an untrained eye to identify, because sometimes dogs struggle with behaviors that are dangerous, and seasoned experts are pricey. That’s how the scammers get their foot in the door.

They poke at our hearts with a needle carved from a kernel of truth.

There’s a particular kind of rot to this con, because it only works with authority figures. The doctor, the accountant, the trainer—we get handed trust in our expertise before we’ve earned it. When we use that trust to scare people into spending, it’s not just bad business: it’s betrayal.

Stacks of books teach entrepreneurs how to use such methods, as if it was the norm. Perhaps it is. They call it “marketing.” But there is such a thing as ethical marketing, and it’s the only way. Folks have called me naive my entire career, but the proof is in the kibble (“pudding” just doesn’t feel right here).

Every time I solve a client’s problems quickly and efficiently—kibble.
Every time I tell a client they don’t need more than one session—kibble.
Every time a trainer on my team helps someone in the community free of charge—kibble.
Literally every time we are honest, it comes with kibble. Because honesty is rarer than it should be.

And, of course, when we provide long-term training for a dog with a serious issue or provide holistic packages throughout puppyhood and adolescence, we cultivate trust and earn our kibble too. The price tag isn’t the issue, it’s the trickery. I don’t mind paying for a valuable service. I do mind being ripped off, especially (ESPECIALLY) when someone uses my fears to rope me in.

So how can you tell the difference?

Red Flags:

1. You feel scared or pressured by them when they show you the price tag. You may be scared or worried about your dog’s behavior—that’s normal—but they should be helping to calm you instead of fanning the flames.

2. They guarantee results or give an uninformed prognosis. Dogs are individuals, and no expert can, ethically, promise you anything in the first five minutes. It’s a sales tactic.

3. They are secretive or you notice some sleight-of-hand. A general idea of their typical price structure should be loud and clear somewhere on their website, and they should be able to articulate it. It’s completely normal for them to customize a quote to suit your goals and lifestyle, but their average ad hoc session price should be clear.

Yellow Flags:

• They charge nothing for a consultation. This is such a common strategy for bringing in new clients that it doesn’t always warrant suspicion. Sometimes, it is genuinely a great way to build trust and get to know each other. Still, someone once told me that “There’s always a price. Find out what it is.” A free consultation usually means a sales pitch. Sales pitches themselves aren’t evil, but keep your antennae up and be sure to use the time to discover if they are honest and skilled.

• You didn’t ask for much, but they insist you need everything under the sun. This one’s harder to suss out. There are times when I spot something concerning during a training session and I’ll recommend additional training. You’ll need to rely on your gut and common sense. I’ll give an example of the sort of thing you should expect from an ethical trainer in a situation like that. Once, I noticed resource guarding behaviors during a routine hyperactivity session. The high-energy behaviors only needed one session to work through, but the resource guarding needed a full package (about 3 or 4 sessions). When I told the clients, they were suspicious of a slick sales strategy. I saw the look in their eyes, and was afraid they would skip the training their dog needed simply because they did not yet trust me. So, I referred them to a trusted colleague in the neighborhood. This ensured that they got the help they needed and it convinced them beyond a shadow of a doubt that I had their best interests at heart. Truth is, I care more about the dogs than the rest of it. And, of course, they returned later for fun and games training and to express their gratitude.

Kibble.

With Love,
Amanda G

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Dogs are loved.

They are also feared, spoiled, sacred, and expendable.
They are workers, pests, companions, and family.

All over the world, humans have extraordinarily different relationships with dogs — and the stories we tell about them shape everything. They determine whether a dog sleeps in our bed or lives on a chain. Whether a stray is fed or kicked. Whether an animal is a companion, a tool, or something in between.

I spend a lot of time inside those stories.

The writings here are about dogs and humans and the wild, complicated, ancient relationship between us. We’ll go deep into mythology and history. We’ll go hiking and traveling. We’ll spend time lying in the grass. I’ll ask upside-down questions about things we take for granted, and I’ll keep tinkering with the narratives we’ve inherited — because I think some of them are worth keeping, and some of them desperately need to change.

My dog Drago is usually nearby when I’m writing. He is not a human, and not a wolf. He is his own liminal being, aware of things I’ll never know.

This feels like the right place to chase down conundrums and tinker with solutions.

I invite you to join me.

Why me?

I'm an anthrozoologist, dog behavior consultant, and dog trainer in Manhattan, where I've been living and working with dogs and their people for over 15 years.

I am obsessed with the relationship between dogs and humans and the cultures that develop to support that relationship. The questions are big, the dogs are sweet, and I will travel to the end of the world to try to solve some of these puzzles.

I have a mess of letters behind my name (MS, CDBC, CPDT), and I've been on the major media outlets. But my real credentials are my hands on work with dogs and their people and the hours I've spent conspicuously watching dogs in the strangest of places.

I started this newsletter because the dog-human relationship is one of the most fascinating and worthwhile connections on earth. This is where I write about it — the science, the soul, and the conundrums.

I've also got a book coming soon. More on that later.