Morning chaos. I’m in the middle of my usual AM routine — dogs fed, coffee somewhere on the way, and I’m hustling to get out the door. John is in town, toggling between his home office and the kitchen, while the dogs — in true form — are already on post-breakfast patrol.
Once their bowls are empty, their real job begins: assessing who, between the two upright bipeds in the house, will be in charge of the fun. Fun, in this context, means either chasing the orange ball with frantic devotion or heading into the woods for an off-leash hike that satisfies all their sniffing needs and existential joy.
Between dramatic sighs and flopping theatrically on the floor, they keep checking in. They’re not subtle. A quick glance, a tail twitch, a strategic stretch right in your path — all part of the game. They’re reading the room. Who’s putting on pants with purpose? Who’s lingering with a coffee mug? Who looks like a “maybe”?
This morning, it’s not me. I’m suiting up for work, and the moment they hear the soft “shh-shh” of my pants, both dogs bolt to the bathroom, tails wagging, eyes full of hope. I shake my head, laugh, and tell them: “Wrong human today. I’m clocking in.”
Undeterred, they pivot to John. He might be the one. The sighs start up again — deep, judgmental sighs, especially from Deuce, who has a very clear way of communicating: You people are slow, unreliable, and clearly missing the point of life.
And here’s the thing. It’s not personal. It’s not about love or loyalty or who pets them the most. It’s about strategy. Dogs, contrary to the poetic mythology we often layer over them, aren’t sitting around wondering how best to please us. They’re just figuring out what works. For them.
And I love that about dogs.
We tend to romanticize their behavior — filter it through a very human lens of obligation, affection, and reward. But when my dogs follow the person with the leash, the ball, or the bacon, they’re not being manipulative. They’re being efficient. That’s how evolution wired them: not to please, but to survive. Their behavior is driven by needs, instincts, and reinforcement — not guilt, duty, or love songs.
Now, I know — some people hate hearing this. “But my dog loves me,” they say, eyebrows twitching with panic. Sure, your dog loves you. That’s not the question. Dogs can be bonded, joyful, safe, and affectionate — and still act out of self-interest. These are not mutually exclusive concepts.
I see this dissonance in clients all the time. They feel hurt when their dog “prefers” the person who walks them more, or sulk when the dog races toward the houseguest who snuck them half a bagel. It’s human to feel a little bruised. After all, we operate with a lot of emotional baggage — and often, a healthy dose of narcissism. (“I feed you! I take you to the vet! I bought you that orthopedic bed you never use!”)
But here’s the invitation: let that go.
Dogs are dogs. They don’t have a moral compass telling them what they should do. They’re not weighed down by guilt or pretending to like fetch because it makes you feel special. What you see is what you get. And isn’t that kind of…beautiful?
The real question is: can we appreciate them for exactly who they are — ball-chasing, carpet-marking, trash-sniffing, behind-licking, joy-expressing marvels of evolution?
Because when we stop expecting dogs to play by human rules, we get the extraordinary gift of seeing them clearly. That clarity is the foundation of good stewardship, compassionate training, and honest relationship. And yes, that includes letting go of the “furry child” narrative that does more for us than it ever does for them.
I get it. I’ve had my moments too — that pang of disappointment when my dogs rush to greet the person who’s been away or clearly prefer the one who plays tug longer. But when I step back, I realize that’s about me, not them. Dogs are just doing what works. It’s not betrayal. It’s biology.
So here’s my request: the next time you catch yourself humanizing your dog — assigning them motivations that sound suspiciously like your own — pause. Take a breath. And smile. Then watch them do something deeply, unapologetically dog.
In that moment, meet them where they are — not where we wish they’d be. That, my friends, is love.