Body Neutrality...for Dogs?

i.e., Your Dog Isn't Cute

I hate positive people.

Okay, that’s not true. Let me rephrase.

Positivity is exhausting. Don’t tell me to “Be happy!” or “Stay strong!”—I don’t want to hear it. When I hear these cliché commands, my gut instinct is to lurch back and crawl into my dark little cave, glowering.

But even worse is when that effervescent toxicity is applied to our bodies. As a girl who hit puberty at the same time social media did—when it transformed from MySpace on dial-up internet to Facebook on smartphones—suddenly my body became more than just my own. Everyone and anyone could see it; I belonged to the internet.

Now, as a full-grown adult with a microscopic social media presence, I still struggle with body image. It has been a roller coaster of shame, despair, fury, and, on rare occasions, acceptance. But when I found body neutrality, a small piece of that emotional weight began to lift off me.

Instead of despairing in some of those moments of self-loathing, I can now question why I feel that way.

I’m teaching myself that it’s okay to not be okay with my body, to accept dissatisfaction, because my value as a human being isn’t tied to my physical appearance. Of course, it’s not as easy as flipping a switch—these things never are—but with this realization, I finally gave myself permission to explore the good, the bad, and the ugly when it comes to how I feel about my body.

In a way, it feels strange—silly, even—to write these words, to put these pressures on myself, and relieve them, based on what other people say and do. I’d like to care less about what other people think, but it’s hardwired into my DNA. I can’t not consider it. We all move through this world as members of a larger system, and we conform to certain standards to fit in. We shouldn’t be ashamed to want to be like other people and find acceptance from them. It’s natural human behavior.

What matters is how we feel when we’re the odd ones out, or when they don’t accept us. At the end of the day, we’re the only ones who have to live with ourselves, so we should allow ourselves to feel worthy, regardless of how we look.

So. What in the world does this have to do with dogs?

Actually, quite a lot.

As a dog walker, I’m out every day walking other people’s dogs, and when I’m not, I’m out walking my own.

When I was younger, years of moaning (with some additional persuasion from my grandma) finally broke down my parents into getting me a dog. We drove across town and picked up a fluffy little cockapoo puppy from a family who bred their cocker spaniel with a relative’s poodle. She was a sweet, tubby, roly-poly of a thing, with curly hair of a bright, coppery brown. Her name was Rosa.

When Rosa went out for walks, people would ooh and aah, and children often asked to pet the little puppy who looked more like a teddy bear than an actual dog. Everybody thought she was adorable.

Fast forward twelve years. I’m in college, working at a doggy daycare, and desperately craving a dog of my own. (This is probably how many women feel about getting pregnant. I just wanted to be surrounded by animals.) While searching the local shelters, I met the dog of my dreams. She’s a feisty Jack Russell mix with a mask of black covering most of her face and black spots all over the rest of her white fur; her ears point straight up, and her tail curls in a near-perfect circle. Her name is Jolie.

Quickly, I noticed a difference in how strangers reacted to her. People may smile at her, kids may shout “Doggy!” but I can’t think of a time when strangers fawned over her like they did with Rosa. By their standards, she’s just not that cute.

I see this every day as a dog walker. Dogs of recognizable breeds—labs, pugs, corgis—and dogs with long or curly hair—doodles, doodles, doodles—are met with praise and adoration, while the others are passed silently.

There’s a profound sadness—a hopelessness—I feel when a child eagerly runs up to me, asking to pet “my dog.” They gush about how cute or fluffy they are—parents behind them, lovingly gazing at their child’s wonder—and I stand there feeling complicit in the normalization of canine eugenics.

It may sound extreme to call it that, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t true. Dogs have been bred from their wild ancestors to have certain traits we deem valuable. In the past, dogs may have been used for hunting, but they primarily exist today as nonhuman babies for us to dote on. Their purpose is to look pretty and sit by our sides as we live our lives.

Jolie is beautiful in my eyes, inside and out, and I’m sorry that more people don’t see it.

While I seek to find body neutrality for myself, I easily and wholeheartedly embrace it with dogs.

I no longer ask people what kind of dog they have, because the dog has value regardless. What does breed, age, size, or color matter? Superficial appearance is inconsequential; each dog is as worthy of life and happiness as any other.

I no longer tell people their dogs are cute, unless I know the dogs are rescues. Even remarking with terms like “sweet” or “well-behaved” can be problematic, as certain breeds are sold under the guise of being particularly intelligent, docile, or easy to train. I try to reserve my most gratuitous compliments—like “beautiful” or “perfect”—for rescue dogs. Unfortunately, I don’t see enough of them.

I no longer ask to pet or interact with other dogs, unless the dog approaches me first. I want to respect the dogs’ wishes, but I also don’t want to give the “owners” the satisfaction of gushing over their dogs.

Perhaps I am more jaded by these small occurrences than the average person, and I recognize that my actions likely have little effect. But in these small ways, I rebel against an immoral, prejudicial system. In these small ways, I hope to normalize the idea that all dogs have beautiful hearts and are worthy of respect and compassion, regardless of the body they inhabit.

be conscious, be kind, be vegan