The Unsniffed Life Is Not Worth Living: An Ode To My Dogs

I don’t remember a time in my life when I didn’t have a dog around, somewhere. Dogs at our house (yes, more than one) sleep on our beds, share our food, and are spoken to using full sentences. They encourage us to move and get out for fresh air. They’re front and centre in our family photos. I’m not sure I’d know what to do without a dog.

I’ve always struggled to find an accurate descriptor for these furry little wonders, for the role they play in my life. To say I love them would be an understatement, of course. The notion of them being like my kids feels strange, though it does speak to my affection for them. Thinking of them as friends or companions is fine, but maybe not enough. Referring to them as my property, and to myself as their owner, is just plain creepy. They certainly don’t work for me (or for anyone, for that matter). I don’t need them to catch my food or watch for predators (but props to all the dogs with jobs). They’re definitely more than just roommates or tenants. I jokingly refer to them as my familiars from time to time, but I’m not sure that scans either.

To better understand the place they have in my home and my heart, I turn to the ancient Greeks. Dogs have been different things to me at different points in my life, but presently, mine are best described as a Greek chorus.

If you’ve never watched a performance of Oedipus Rex or Lysistrata, the chorus serves a number of different functions. Perched on the periphery as the main story unfolds, they provide reactions to and insights about what’s going on. They give background, context, and commentary. Sometimes they debate with one another. Overall, they’re a bridge between the main characters and the world around them, and a very helpful guide for the audience.

My dogs, at least the two I have right now, do all of these things. In addition to booping me with their cold wet noses when they need to go out, and protecting me from delivery people and errant squirrels, they follow me around during the day and react to just about everything I’m doing. It’s done with curiosity, but sometimes also with enthusiasm or concern. If my activities are of interest to them, there are knowing wags, head tilts, and perked up ears. If I’m doing something objectionable or just being lazy, I get a huff or a whine. I’m convinced they can smell when I’m angry or flustered, that they’ve memorized that I put my socks on last in the morning, and that they know the closing of my laptop means the end of one thing and the beginning of another.

One is a sentry, and she sleeps stretched out across the front door, so no one gets in or out without her giving her approval. The other is our court jester, squeaking his toys during zoom calls and smiling along as we watch things on television. They are, respectively, Apollo and Dionysus, order and chaos, logic and emotion, and they are always watching, always responding, always reminding me of the here and now when my head starts to float away. They are always, if nothing else, present.

Yes, I’m reading a lot into my canine companions, which seems to be a common thing for us human-types. Greek choruses do not typically wrap their furry paws around your feet while you sleep, or fixate on the cheese drawer in the fridge. Choruses don’t require you to poop and scoop after they exit the stage. It’s possible they see me in all of the roles I hesitate to assign to them. In their eyes, I may be just some sweet, gullible goofball who’s agreed to do their bidding in exchange for cuddles. I can live with that.

There aren’t enough words to describe the impact having this live-in system of checks and balances can have on one’s life, especially when one is living through “times like these”. Greek choruses call for observation and reflection. They ground the action on stage, and call for focus. They make space for much-needed pauses and asides. They necessitate that we pay at least some attention to someone other than ourselves. I need that, especially now. We all do.

A Greek chorus needn’t come in canine form, of course. Plenty of other animals (domestic and otherwise) are probably observing you, or at least seem to be, and if you pay attention to their observations, you may, as another famous ancient Greek suggested, “know thyself.” Pick a hamster, or a goldfish, or, dare I say it, another human, but it’s a good idea to have some sort of force to hold you to account as you fumble around. Your chorus need only remind you that there are consequences to what you say and do, that you aren’t alone in the world, and that there is always a moment to stop and reflect.