I’ve worked hard to mask my lifelong animosity towards dogs. Their barks, their smells, the way they multiplied around me during the pandemic and filled my local parks with their poops. But two things recently have left me feeling like I’m the one in the doghouse. Firstly, following a long, excellent first date with someone I met on an app, after walks, wine, overshares and snogs, I was told the next day by text that she ultimately couldn’t see me fitting into her busy life as a “dog mum”. I’d been c**k-blocked by a cocker spaniel. Yet being in a degrading man-woman-dog love triangle wasn’t the final straw – it was finance, not romance. Recently someone told me, in the context of a possible career change, that dog care in a bougie neighbourhood nearby in East London costs around £40 a day. In my slightly fragile, single and insecure state, the idea that someone would spend hard cash on a dog, yet not want to spend time with me left me rattled. I was snubbed and thus obsessed with my canine opponents. I had to find out more.
A quick Google showed that over in west London, “doggy daycare” can cost up to £60 per day. Sure, the facilities at some places across the UK sounded hilarious – some have “spas” and chill-out areas, some have trampolines – but the economics were the starkest part. This was an expense on a par with childcare, which on average costs Londoners £182.50 for 25 hours a week for toddlers. The same amount of supervision at a west London doggy daycare centre would cost a mind-melting £1,500. For – let me just reiterate – a dog.
As a parent of two human children, I didn’t explode in righteousness when my date described herself as a “dog mum”. I think owning a dog is different from parenting a child, but I also know that using terms like “Dog Dad” or “Plant Mum” is part of the inescapable Etsy-fication of our lives, where we’re encouraged to boil ourselves down to slogans that can go on a T-shirt or a “Live Laugh Love”-style sign as a way of fending off the agonising emptiness of modern life. But semantics aside, it was clear to me that dogs were getting all the money and all the babes. I needed to understand my opponent a little better.
I remembered that an old friend from school called Sam was working with dogs, in a capacity I’d never quite understood, so I got back in contact – expecting him to tell me such prices were an anomaly. “£40 a day? I charge £30 per hour,” was his jaw-dropping reply. So I arranged to meet Sam, who is in fact both a dog trainer and a walker, one morning to accompany him on his rounds in the residential areas near Old Street and Farringdon. We met in the shadows of a gleaming trio of luxury high-rises, which he surmised probably has the highest concentration of dog owners anywhere on the planet. He had pleasingly bonkers insights into the financial extremes people will go to for their pooches: the owner who had recently installed a £500 air-con unit for their sausage dog, the one who had spent £30,00 on a bionic leg, and another who had spent £50,000 on brain surgery. Some have birthday parties with games and food; one lucky dog has seven whole beds. I found it all delightful and terrifying at the same time, like a Kinder Egg filled with anthrax.
But what I wasn’t expecting was that I’d be so damn charmed by his own relationship with dogs. Sam is 6ft 8 and has more charisma than a million awards shows. He currently has a full client list, but whenever there’s a lull, he simply heads to a park with his own dog, Callum, and casually does a few tricks with him. Dog lovers flock to talk to him, and he’s set. Even on our modest rounds, he’s asked for a business card, while cafe owners and other locals stop and greet his charges by name. He lives a charmed life and engenders respect. And sure, maybe that’s not surprising for someone who, in his words, is “one inch away from technically being a giant”. But it’s his patent dedication to dogs and the psychology of dog ownership that looms even larger. While some of his clients didn’t even know their dogs needed to be walked before they bought them, as a trainer Sam is able to assess even the most difficult dogs and work with them until they exist in harmony with their owner and their owner’s lifestyle. Watching his ease and command with dogs was genuinely magnetic, it made a real impact on me.
And yet, even a pro like Sam still thinks the world’s gone a bit dog mad. There’s of course a problem with a society where wealthy dogs are leading better lives than struggling humans in the same city. My favourite subtle experience of this was seeing a young, discretely affluent couple getting on a train in a once working-class neighbourhood, a whippet in tow. The train was packed solid, yet the dog had a bandana loudly exclaiming “I NEED SPACE”. Which felt a little huffy, amongst tired, sardined humans just trying to get home from work. Beyond the wild economics of it all, there’s also the resource of time. Young, child-free couples who sabotage their social life in the name of dog daddying, for example. Or couples who break up, move to different towns, yet still meet twice a week to hand over their shared-custody canine – in a lay-by that once upon a time, ironically, might have been a dogging hotspot.
But having someone explain the psychology of dog owning helped me understand that all of this madness – and I do reserve the right to call it madness – is at least born out of a clear sense of love for a fellow sentient being. Occasionally cute ones, at that. Plus, nobody would spend all this money and bag the warm faeces of something which didn’t, in some small way, give love back. It’s a lifestyle choice that I’ve perhaps been a bit judgemental towards, based too long on the glaring inequalities of the city I’ve lived in all my life. But seeing first-hand how much joy they spread on Sam’s rounds alone made me feel quite stupid for being quite so negative for so long. Next week, I’m meeting Sam’s dog Callum. Maybe I’ll even ask to see a trick or two. Dogs: I humbly accept you are a worthy adversary.
