You know how sometimes you think you’ve had a brilliant idea, then it bites you in the bum like an athletic but mean jack russell? Suggesting I could “live like a dog for a day to see if they’re happier” turned out to be one of those.
It seemed so promising. When I heard the title of the philosopher Mark Rowlands’ book The Happiness of Dogs: Why the Unexamined Life Is Most Worth Living, it struck me like a Frisbee to the head. Rowlands hasn’t written a how-to guide – rather it’s a lovely meditation on what it’s like in our canine companions’ heads – but it filled me with urgent longing.
Anyone who has sat at a desk while something furry lies oblivious in their eye line, maybe languorously licking its genitals, or more probably asleep, has had a version of the thought at the heart of Rowlands’ book: surely these creatures are happier than us? Dogs, Rowlands says, are “resplendent in their lack of self-examination”; reliably able to access “unbridled happiness”. Dogs have never felt the adrenal jolt of opening an angry email or tried to insert an image into a Word document. They don’t ask themselves what the point is or wonder if they’re good dogs: they know they are (people tell them constantly).
Of course, it’s not that simple: there are dogs whose needs aren’t met and who don’t get to express their instinctive behaviours; anxious and neglected dogs. In 2021, Bunny the anxious-looking sheepadoodle who presses buttons to talk reportedly had an existential crisis, repeatedly pressing “dog what dog is?”
Still, who wouldn’t be a dog if they could? I crave an unexamined life. Being human is so complicated – all that doubt, dread, 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 stuff: digging, walking, eating, hugging.
Becoming a dog for the day, I have a few human hard lines: no bum sniffing, outdoor peeing or meat. “Is someone going to pick up your poo?” my best friend asks; also no. She then suggests I “make whimpering sounds” to be fed at regular intervals, but it’s not about treats: I just want to taste a life of pure sensation.
It starts idyllically. I head outside and lie down, because I used to have a dog and this is what he would do. The sun warms my back, there’s a tickle of dry grass beneath me; birds chatter in the hedge. A squirrel bounces past and my most doggy trait – implacable squirrel hatred – emerges as I chase it away with fierce joy. Later, I eat like I might never be fed again and quell intrusive bedtime anxiety by telling myself none of that applies to me, a dog. In the morning, I breakfast on four crumpets because dogs don’t do health-motivated deprivation, then take myself for a walk.
But on my return, human life keeps intruding, a dispiriting buffet of un-dog experiences: “deadlines”, “obligations” and “worries”. Instead of napping and rolling in grass, I find myself drearily scrolling (oh, not to have opposable thumbs). And despite regular snacks and stretches, I find myself frustrated at my poor work-in-progress, anxious about past and future tasks, and ambushed by sadness as my sons leave for university (conceivably this falls under separation anxiety, which is quite doggy). I also read Rowlands’ book, which is at turns sad and profound: I’m reminded how much I miss my dog as he talks about the death of one of his, and scroll sadly through photos of my silky-headed fool. Dogs, Rowland says, “love their lives more than we love ours”, which seems very true, and quite heartbreaking. I end my day in a decline so deep I consider asking my husband to throw a ball for me, but settle for curling up in bed; maybe an ear scratch would help.
Being a dog is way harder than it looks – impossible actually. I can’t switch off self-awareness, reflection, rumination, however much I chase squirrels or lie in the sun. The good news, though, is I’ve been promised a treat when I finish telling you this sad truth. So: woof!