Recently, my friend Oren was mulling over a quandary. “If some eccentric billionaire came up to me and was like, ‘That’s a great dog, I want to buy him. What does he cost?’ I don’t think there’s a number that exists,” he said about his beloved Australian Shepherd, Crosby. “Would I sell him for, like, $10 million? I absolutely would not. The entire reason for having $10 million would be to take Crosby on a boat to Europe or something like that.”
Crosby is Oren’s best friend. (Like all other pet owners mentioned in this story, Oren asked that he and his dog be referred to by pseudonyms.) “It’s such a singular relationship,” he says. Crosby has severe separation anxiety, so Oren and his partner can’t leave him alone for more than ninety minutes at a time unless they arrange for a sitter or daycare. Their dynamic is not dissimilar to that of parent and child. Crosby “has just completely upended our social life,” Oren says. And like any attentive parents, they’re attached to their baby. “I prioritize things I can do socially where I can bring Crosby too,” he says. Crosby comes to barbecues and park hangs and is a tail-wagging fixture at their neighbourhood wine bar in the summer.
In my friend group of thirtysomething yuppies, most are married, and many have kids. An eavesdropper on our dinner conversation probably couldn’t say for certain whether we’re talking about Beagles or babies. At least not from the way we discuss these pooches’ personalities and prescriptions, or trade tales of digestive disasters. An obsession with one’s pet was once a hallmark trait of eccentric sitcom characters. But if the question “Who rescued who?” used to induce eye rolls and forced smiles, today, it elicits earnest nods of recognition. Dog owners have become the kind of people we used to make fun of: pet parents.
People were humanizing their pets even before the pandemic adoption boom, with owners pampering their pooches with massages, hotel stays, and gourmet food. But the trend has intensified, shifting the relationship to a new emotional register—from pet ownership to pet parenthood. Today, “pet parent” is a social identity worthy of marquee status in an Instagram bio or a Hinge profile—and a new consumer group fuelling a growing market expected to surpass half a trillion dollars by 2030.
The data backs this up. A new global study commissioned by Mars, the billion-dollar pet care conglomerate, and Calm, a mental health app, found that 58 percent of pet owners say they’d rather be with their pets when feeling stressed instead of their partners, kids, or friends; in 2023, Pew Research Center reported that nearly all American pet owners see their pets as family, with over half saying that they see them as being on the same level as any human member. And as pet ownership rates are rising, marriage and birth rates are falling, with working-age adults spending less time with their friends than ever before. Pet humanization is a phenomenon abroad too: young people in South Korea are opting out of parenthood to pamper their pets, while pet parents in China organize matchmaking events for their animals.
For the record: I love dogs. I pet them on the street, I follow them on Instagram, I die when they ignore me. My mom has memorialized our late childhood dog on her desktop background, despite being a grandmother of three. But in the past few years, I’ve noticed the boundaries of the relationship between pet and owner blur into oblivion.
Dog parents have lost their goddamned minds. Why are we treating pets like they’re people? And worse yet, are we treating each other like dogs?
Scientists consider dogs to be the first domesticated animal, tracing our bond with them back at least 11,000 years. In ancient graves, for example, researchers have found dogs buried with their possessions, like decorative collars, and treated with as much care as people. As we’ve co-evolved over millennia, the role of dogs in our families has too.
“What we have is this increasing parentification, where people are increasingly seeing themselves as pet parents,” says Andrea Breen, an associate professor of family relations and human development at the University of Guelph and a trained developmental (human) psychologist. Breen links the rise of pet parenthood, in part, to animal researchers’ growing focus on the reality and depth of dogs’ emotions and the role that plays in how we form authentic—and, to some extent, reciprocal—connections with them. (There’s a reason dogs are the most popular emotional support animal.) But it’s also part of a cultural shift in how we define family. As social norms around marriage and parenting evolve and family structures become more fluid, we’re channelling our innate desire for caregiving toward dogs.
Even the most self-aware pet owner isn’t immune to the pet parenthood trap. Breen’s teenage son teases her often for treating their family dogs like her babies. “There’s aspects of it that are like a parent–child relationship—I’m responsible for caring for their physical and psychological needs. And I love them deeply,” she concedes. “But the dogs are not my babies. The dogs are dogs.”
While dogs do, Breen says, understand quite a lot of our language, we express ourselves primarily through movement and touch. In place of ambiguous texts or passive-aggressive jabs, dogs connect us to a visceral part of ourselves we can’t always access in human relationships.
“Dogs are easier than humans for a lot of people,” says Breen. Like my friend Gordon, a tech worker and married father of one, who describes the intimacy he feels with his dog, Derek, as “obviously a little bit more primal and raw.” To Gordon, Derek is “one of the closest relationships I have with anyone.”
Devoted pet parents who see their dogs as a surrogate for human companionship may be more likely to bail on friends or ditch a date—perhaps even believing the dog doesn’t vibe with their potential paramour. (In modern dating, it seems, you must love dogs. It’s a requirement, not a request.) In other words, pet parents bear a social cost. “Maybe you don’t have as many friends or relational partners, and you’re relying a lot on your pet for affection,” says William Chopik, a social-personality psychologist and associate professor at Michigan State University. “So, you put its opinions on a pedestal, even though the opinions don’t come from anywhere logical.”
My friend Claire, for example, integrates her twenty-six-pound husky-terrier mix Coco into her social plans, usually texting friends to ask if Coco can tag along. But she keeps a tight circle, and sometimes finds it daunting to pursue new friendships. “That feels very stressful and panicky for me,” she admits. “Just that whole idea of opening up and building trust, [knowing] how deep [to go], what to share, what not to share—that’s very calculated for me.” With Coco, she says, “it’s a real chemistry.”
The fact that some people spend more time with pets than other humans is a symptom of what The Atlantic’s Derek Thompson calls our “crisis of social fitness.” By retreating into “self-imposed solitude,” Thompson writes, we are disintegrating social ties. We prefer to be alone or to mediate our interactions through front-facing cameras than to leave the house. We’re always being watched but rarely feel seen.
The psychology of pet humanization is complex. In 2024, the New York Times reported that treating pets like children can make dogs overly dependent on their owners, leading to behavioural and physical problems. For humans, the impulse often stems from social exclusion: a 2023 study found that people who feel isolated are more likely to anthropomorphize animals and objects. Another study from 2019 found that the perception of dogs as part of an in-group strengthens the emotional comfort animals can provide, which in turn can improve owners’ well-being. But the researchers noted that these findings align with broader literature on dehumanization: we empathize most with those in our social in-group—and less so with those outside it. That might explain why Bravo star Lisa Vanderpump seems to care more for her sick swans than her adopted son, or why your friends’ eyes glaze over when you mention a breakup or layoff but light up when telling you how Milo’s CBD paw massage eased his anxiety. If a dog’s love meets our needs, what do we need people for?
A dog might require daily walks and regular vet visits, but they can’t ghost you or gossip behind your back. A dog can’t throw a tantrum or say they hate you for not serving ice cream before dinner. A dog can’t express a bad opinion or Slack you after hours. They might pee on your couch, but they won’t pee on your leg and tell you it’s raining. In trading the tricky mess of human relationships for pet companionship free of emotional guesswork, we lose out on the essential fulfillment of a connection we can’t control. Friends and partners may hurt and disappoint us, but a dog can always be trained.
Few owners would dispute the notion that dogs bring joy, ease stress, and foster social connection. The science, however, is ambiguous. For example, a 2021 study, published in the academic journal Veterinary Sciences, reviewed fifty-four studies on pet ownership and mental health and found mixed results. So, while there are studies that support the benefits of dog ownership, there is also evidence of negative impacts, and even no impact at all. That’s largely because methodological hurdles can lead to conflicting findings and make it hard to establish cause and effect. There is empirical evidence supporting that dogs can make us healthier, but there are also studies showing the opposite. So, if the science is still in progress, who is selling the myth that our pooch completes us?
“It’s marketed that way by the major [pet] corporations,” says Breen. A recent report in the science magazine Undark found most pet studies are sponsored by pet companies. Mars, for example, partnered with Ipsos in 2024 to conduct the world’s largest pet parent study, in which 37 percent of respondents said their pets were the most important thing in their lives.
Industry investment funds research in sectors beyond pet care, from food to agriculture to energy. Hal Herzog, a leading researcher in human–pet relations, told Undark that corporate money doesn’t automatically discredit the quality of the studies. But, as other scientists point out, it means that companies sponsor studies that are more likely to produce favourable results for them. Why else does Purina spend $100 million a year on research into the human–pet bond if not to prove that “pets and people are better together”? That’s the sort of claim upon which a $20 billion pet care empire rests.
As Breen says, the contours of modern pet parenthood are, in part, shaped by corporations. Brands don’t just meet demand for pet products; they manufacture it. These companies are making puppy-dog eyes at us, branding companionship as luxury dog hotels, pet spas, and private members’ clubs with annual fees starting at $890. Take Biche, a new line of grooming products infused with fine fragrance, which recently secured a pre-seed investment round led by a European perfume distributor. “These rituals are really key to building that emotional bond,” founder Alexandra Pauly told The Business of Fashion. Pauly wants to encourage people to treasure the finite time they have with their dogs, “because pets don’t live forever, unfortunately.” Unlike your parents, who are immortal.
This is not to say that pets can’t offer profound connection. “When I first adopted Coco, I was really struggling with my mental health,” says Claire. “I didn’t want to take care of her, but I had to. That gave me a lot of structure. It was about having to take care of something that also loved me no matter what.” The bond may be maternal, but Claire knows that Coco is her dog, not her daughter. No matter how much we believe it, dogs don’t have the same social intelligence or moral judgment that we do. “Do I get embarrassed when she wipes her ass on someone’s carpet? Hugely so,” Claire says. “And then I’m like, ‘It’s okay. She’s a dog.’”
Sometimes a married acquaintance will learn I’m single and offer unsolicited advice: You should get a dog. It’s the kind of well-intentioned but condescending remark that reeks of normie judgment: that until I find a partner, I should practise with a puppy. I’m tempted to retaliate with divorce stats and prenup tips, but that would only brand me as a bitter man bereft of love. But to me, a dog is a dog, not a substitute for human intimacy. Canine companionship may enrich my life, but it can’t complete it.
I suppose I inherited that from my mom who, in 1972, quoted Barbra Streisand’s immortal lyric from the musical Funny Girl in her high school yearbook: “People who need people are the luckiest people in the world.” She also had a dog.
