Why You Should Have a Dog

By the time Leonard realized something was wrong with his dog, the dog knew too.

The dog—whose name was Pippin—had developed a sensitivity to noises, objects, concepts, and the passage of time. The mail slot caused panic. So did Leonard’s voice. Also silence. Leonard, who worked in “strategy,” initially assumed he would solve Pippin’s problems. Just like he did of his ex.

After all, Leonard himself had a standing relationship with three therapists, one meditation app, and an emergency bottle of propranolol he described as “mostly symbolic.”

The veterinarian was sympathetic. The dog was anxious, she said, but not unusually so. What was unusual was that Leonard expected a creature descended from wolves to tolerate city living, vacuum cleaners, and his emotional need to be seen as a good person.

They started with fluoxetine.

This did not help, but it did clarify things.

Soon Pippin was on a rotating regimen that Leonard described using words usually reserved for foreign policy: “targeted,” “responsive,” “adaptive.” Leonard learned to grind pills into peanut butter and sneak it to the dog. The dog, meanwhile, began staring at walls like a cat. Maybe I should get a cat, said Leonard aloud to his dog.

But then, he thought, this is exactly why he didn’t get a cat. Each time the vet reassured Leonard—It’s not you—Leonard felt a profound sense of relief, followed by the vague disappointment that the problem had not been him in a way he could optimize.

Leonard went online to find studies on dog anxiety. Surely this is a problem for everyone, he thought. We live in a material universe, and science will always have the answer. Then he joined an online group. The group did not ask whether the dogs were anxious. The dogs were anxious. That part was settled. The real question was dosage. Also supplements. Also whether anxiety in dogs should be treated holistically, pharmacologically, or narratively.

One woman explained that her dog suffered from “anticipatory urination abandonment stress,” which manifested whenever she went to the bathroom without him. She cited the study.

Leonard wondered if dogs had always been like this or were liberals ruining them. The group assured him that dogs were always this way. What had changed was awareness. And square footage. And leash laws. And the fact that dogs were no longer allowed to simply disappear for eight hours and return muddy but fulfilled.

Pippin, for his part, had begun to improve. Or perhaps Leonard had. It was hard to tell. The dog barked less, though when he did bark it felt more meaningful, as though he had considered whether it was worth it.

Leonard asked the vet if dogs might be absorbing human anxiety the way wonderful houseplants absorbed carbon dioxide.

The vet paused. Then she said something Leonard would repeat to friends at dinner parties, lowering his voice slightly, as if quoting scripture.

“What we’re really treating,” she said, “is the relationship.”

This made sense. Everything was relational now.

At home, Pippin slept more. Leonard took this as progress. When Pippin failed to greet him with enthusiasm one evening, Leonard worried the medication might be dulling his personality. He googled “dog authenticity” and immediately closed the tab.

Sometimes Leonard imagined a different arrangement. A dog with a yard. A dog with other dogs. A dog allowed to bark, dig, and occasionally terrify the neighborhood without it being a referendum on anyone’s character.

But then Pippin would look at him—soft-eyed, chemically soothed—and Leonard would feel the familiar relief.

Leonard refilled Pippin’s prescription this morning.