YYou know how sometimes you think you’ve had a brilliant idea, then it bites you in the butt like an athletic but mean Jack Russell? Suggesting that I could “live like a dog for a day to see if they’re happier” seems to be one of them.
It looked so promising. When I heard the title of philosopher Mark Rowlands’ book The Happiness of Dogs: Why the Unexamined Life is Worth Livingit hit me in the head like a frisbee. Rowlands hasn’t written a how-to guide – rather, it’s a delightful meditation on what it’s like inside our canine companions’ heads – but it filled me with urgent longing.
Anyone who has sat at a desk while something furry lay unconscious in their line of sight, perhaps tiredly licking its genitals, or more likely asleep, has had a version of the thought at the heart of Rowlands’ book: these creatures is surely happier than us ? Dogssays Rowlands, are “splendid in their lack of self-examination”; reliably able to access “unbridled happiness”. Dogs have never felt the adrenal rush to open an angry email or try to insert an image into a Word document. They don’t ask themselves what the point is or wonder if they are good dogs: they are know they are (people keep telling them).
Of course, it is not that simple: there are dogs whose needs are not met and who do not express their instinctive behavior; anxious and neglected dogs. In 2021, Bunny the anxious sheepdog who pushes buttons to talk allegedly having an existential crisis, and repeatedly pressed “dog that’s dog?”
Still, who wouldn’t be a dog if they could? I yearn for an unexamined life. Being human is so complicated – all that doubt, fear, self-loathing and awareness of your own mortality. I find living in my head exhausting and my most reliable access to joy comes from physical, animal things: digging, walking, eating, hugs.
To become a dog for the day, I have some human hard lines: no bum sniffs, outdoor pee, or meat. “Is someone going to pick up your poop?” my best friend asks; neither. She then suggests I “make whimpering noises” to be fed at regular intervals, but it’s not about treats: I just want to taste a life of pure sensation.
It begins idyllically. I go outside and lay down because I used to have a dog and that’s what he would do. The sun warms my back, there is a tickle of dry grass beneath me; birds chatter in the hedge. A squirrel bounces by and my most doggy trait – unrelenting squirrel hatred – comes to the fore as I chase it away with fiery glee. Later, I eat like I’ll never be fed again and suppress intrusive bedtime anxiety by telling myself none of that applies to me, a dog. In the morning I breakfast on four dumplings because dogs do not do health-motivated deprivation, then I walk myself.
But on my return, human life continues to intrude, a disturbing buffet of undog experiences: “deadlines”, “obligations” and “worries”. Instead of napping and rolling in the grass, I find myself sadly scrolling (oh, to not have opposable thumbs). And despite regular snacks and stretches, I find myself frustrated with my poor work-in-progress, anxious about past and future tasks, and ambushed by grief as my sons leave for college (this may fall under separation anxiety, which is quite doggy) . I’m also reading Rowlands’ book, which is by turns sad and profound: I’m reminded of how much I miss my dog as he talks about the death of one of his, and sadly flip through photos of my side-headed fool. Dogs, says Rowland, “love their lives more than ours”, which seems very true and quite heartbreaking. I end my day in a slump so deep I consider asking my husband to throw me a ball, but content to curl up in bed; maybe an ear scratch would help.
Being a dog is much harder than it looks – impossible, in fact. I can’t turn off self-awareness, reflection, rumination, no matter how much I chase squirrels or lay in the sun. The good news, though, is that I’ve been promised a treat when I’m done telling you this sad truth. So: wow!
