Your Dog Doesn’t Need to Come Everywhere With You

At some point in the last ten years, Americans collectively decided that dogs were no longer pets. They were children. And not just children, but children with unrestricted access to restaurants, grocery stores, coffee shops, and apparently every other place where the rest of us foolishly assumed we could exist without encountering a golden retriever’s asshole at eye level.

I’m a dog owner myself. I love dogs. But here’s something I’ve managed to understand that apparently escapes a growing number of my fellow dog owners: not everyone wants to be around my dog, and that’s perfectly reasonable.

We’ve somehow arrived at a place where a grown adult can walk into a restaurant with a 90-pound German shepherd, park it next to your table, and act like you’re the asshole for not wanting to eat your $24 pasta six inches from an animal that’s currently licking its own genitals.

And God forbid you say something.

“He’s friendly!”

Wonderful. So was Jeffrey Dahmer, initially. I didn’t ask for a character reference. I asked why there’s a dog standing next to the salad bar.

Then comes the inevitable explanation.

“He’s my baby.”

No, he’s not. He’s a Labrador retriever named Cooper. He eats garbage, barks at the mailman, and has absolutely no concept of what a mortgage is. You love him. That’s terrific. But loving something doesn’t automatically entitle it to a seat at the Cheesecake Factory.

You can’t even get a coffee without someone bringing in a French bulldog wearing a sweater, panting like a malfunctioning air conditioner, while its owner orders a $9 oat milk latte and explains that Winston gets anxious when he’s left alone.

Maybe Winston gets anxious when he’s left alone. That’s unfortunate. But your dog’s separation anxiety shouldn’t become everyone else’s problem while they’re trying to enjoy a cup of coffee.

There used to be places for dogs and places for people. Parks? Dogs. Sidewalks? Dogs. Your own house? Fill it with 40 dogs if you want. Build them a miniature Versailles. I couldn’t care less.

But a grocery store? A bakery? A restaurant?

Why does Baxter need to accompany you while you select avocados? Is he your financial adviser? Does he have strong opinions about produce?

And don’t get me started on people who put their dogs in shopping carts. Nothing says food safety quite like a terrier’s bare asshole resting where someone else’s groceries will be in twenty minutes.

And before the inevitable objections arrive, yes, legitimate service dogs are different. They’re trained to perform necessary tasks for people with disabilities. We’re talking about the guy whose untrained husky is dragging him through Whole Foods while he insists it’s an emotional support animal because he bought a vest on Amazon.

Somewhere along the way, we stopped distinguishing between loving your dog and expecting complete strangers to love your dog. You think he’s adorable. You think he’s family. You think the world is a better place with him in it. Fine. But the rest of us didn’t get a vote, and frankly, we’d just like to eat our fucking lunch.

So by all means, love your dog. Spoil him. Buy him organic treats. Throw him a birthday party. Dress him like a little sailor and photograph him next to a cake made of ground beef.

Just understand that the rest of us didn’t sign up for joint custody.

And for the love of God, leave him home when you go to buy a sandwich.