I noticed this woman at the post office the other day. She was tall and lean with tight, snow-white curls. I wouldn’t have looked twice, but then there she was again, walking out with her two dogs who’d been waiting patiently by the mailboxes. Identical twin poodles — tall, lean, freshly groomed and curled. Altogether, they looked less like a woman with her pets and more like triplets.
A random sighting, to be sure. But it got me thinking. Why do people look like their dogs? Is it just that we resemble them or is there something more? Could they be a mirror to our personalities? Maybe even to our very soul.
Imagine this, for example: You’re walking down the Rail Trail and a man approaches from the opposite direction. You see that he’s walking a dog. You love dogs. And this dog is cute. A fluffy golden. Or, maybe a goofy-looking Lab. Or even a slobbery bulldog.
The man stops dead and abruptly yanks the dog off to the side, making no eye contact with you and muttering in monotone, staccato bursts, “Leave it, leave it, leave it.” Or he does make eye contact and says matter of factly, “He doesn’t like people.”
But I have chicken, you say. You pull out a whole Ziploc baggie from your pocket. I’m pretty sure I can make him like me.
“Not a chance,” the guy says, pulling the leash tighter as the dog looks up at you and wags his tail. “He’s a vegetarian.”
Hang on a sec, Fred Friendly. Are you sure you’re talking about your sweet pup? Because I’m reasonably confident you’re talking about yourself. It must be weirdly comforting to look down the leash and realize you’re literally attached to your own ego.
In that way, maybe dogs are the ultimate selfie, expressing our true nature in ways we can’t even see ourselves. Here are some examples found right here in our own backyard:
The Backcountry Border Collie. Can’t sit still. Constantly sniffing the horizon for avy danger, yellow snow and randomly dropped snacks. Wears a Garmin collar and has a surgically implanted backup because if it isn’t on Strava, it didn’t happen. Will herd you off the skintrack if you’re not climbing fast enough.
The Doodle Duo. Frizzy hair, overly friendly, inexplicably wet. The human version wears Lulu, drinks tart cherry juice with magnesium before bed and says things like “We don’t do kibble.” The dog is on Xanax and has weekly visits with a Reiki master.
The Bernese Billionaire. Lumbering, majestic, zero concept of personal space. Poops wherever he likes, including the neighbor’s Zen meditation garden. Answers to no one. Wears a Tesla Cyberleash.
The Janky Rescue. One pair of bugged-out eyes, 10 nip-nops, unlimited soul. Probably rescued herself. Her human wears Scarpas and has strong opinions about whiskey, tattoos and shopping small. The dog can pose on a velvet couch better than one of your French girls.
The Retired Greyhound. Coming in hot, carrying a vegan no-hide dog chew like a secret. The human is purposely bald because aerodynamics, wears Spandex to work and never talks about his VO2 max because you can feel it radiating off him.
The Chihauhau Cougar. Travels inside her own Birkin bag. Claims she’s never had work done. Cameo appearance in “The Real Housewives of Salt Lake City.” Forever 21, in dog years. Considers CILF a compliment. Personal trainer named Javier. A real badass bitch.
What does your dog say about you? I have no idea. But I do know whatever you’re hiding — anxiety, douchebaggery, rage, selfishness, a thoroughly effed-up childhood — your dog knows. And chances are the rest of us do, too. Because in a town full of crypto-techno-fin bros, type-A types and Patagonia-coated socialites, we can thank the dogs for keeping it real.