Are Dogs Better Humanists Than Humans?

Dogs feature more than some might consider strictly necessary in many of my ceremonies. (I can't imagine why.)

They play a variety of roles: moral support, ring-bearers, babysitters, ushers, petal scatterers, honoured guests. And occasionally, as is the case with the latest couple to have booked me, best man.

And it raises an interesting question. What is it about dogs that we humans find so irresistible? After all, most of us spend a great deal of our lives trying to become the sort of people that dogs already seem to think we are.

We aspire to be kind. Patient. Loyal. Present. Generous. Forgiving. We attend workshops. Read self-help books. Listen to podcasts. Download meditation apps.

Dogs just get on with it. They have kindness in abundance: it runs through their whole system like the name of a seaside town running through a stick of rock. They seem able to find joy in things that many of us barely notice. A walk. A familiar face. A patch of sunshine. Half a sausage.

Particularly half a sausage.

Dogs understand something that humanists spend quite a lot of time talking about: that this moment matters. Not next week. Not when you've finished the kitchen renovation. Not when you've lost half a stone. Not when you've finally answered all your emails.

Now.

This walk.

This cuddle.

This family.

This day.

Dogs are astonishingly good at living in the present. They don't spend hours replaying an embarrassing conversation from 2017. They don't lie awake worrying about whether everyone secretly dislikes them. They don't carry ancient grudges. If you've accidentally stood on a dog's tail, he'll usually have forgiven you long before you've finished apologising.

Human beings, meanwhile, can nurture a resentment with the dedication of a prize-winning gardener.

Dogs also love in a way that feels refreshingly uncomplicated. Their affection isn't transactional. They don't keep score. They don't maintain a spreadsheet of previous disagreements. They don't say, "Well, I would be pleased to see you, but I'm still annoyed about that thing you said in March."

They simply show up. Again and again. Tail wagging. Heart open. Ready to begin afresh.

I was reminded of this a few years ago when Willow and I were staying with my daughter Carolyn. Willow has always had a slightly… heightened sense of responsibility. She's the sort of dog who seems to believe that looking after the emotional wellbeing of every person in every room she enters is, in fact, her job description.

Willow and our granddaughter Bella have grown up together. Willow was a puppy when Bella was a baby, and the two of them have always treated each other as though they are co-founders of a rather chaotic small business.

On this particular evening, Carolyn and I had just sat down to dinner when the familiar soundtrack of a meltdown began upstairs. Bella had decided that bedtime was an outrageously unreasonable suggestion, and was making her feelings known with considerable conviction. Carolyn, having already made several diplomatic visits upstairs, had reached the point familiar to most parents: the one where further negotiation feels less like parenting and more like hostage mediation. So she tried something many of us recognise as “tough love”, which is a phrase that sounds far more confident than it feels when you’re standing at the bottom of the stairs listening to your child declare war on sleep.

We both attempted, with varying degrees of success, to ignore the situation. At which point, Willow began to look… concerned. Not anxious in a dramatic way. More the steady, quiet concern of someone who has reviewed the situation and is not entirely convinced the appointed adults are handling it correctly.

After a few minutes, she stood up.

Heavily.

With the sort of sigh that seemed to contain generations of disappointment.

And then she walked upstairs.

The message was unmistakable. “Well. If you two aren’t going to deal with this, I suppose I'll have to.”

A moment later, the bedroom door clicked shut and the house went quiet.

When we checked later, Bella was fast asleep in bed, one arm flung around her devoted, rather exhausted, hairy guardian.

And the more I think about it, the more I realise how closely this story aligns with the values at the heart of humanism.

Humanism isn't really about grand theories. It's about how we treat one another. It's about kindness, compassion, acceptance, tolerance and connection.

It's about recognising that our relationships are what give our lives meaning.

It's about showing up for people.

Being present.

Making the most of the precious and finite time we have together.

In other words, it's about many of the things dogs seem to do quite naturally.

Now, before dogs become too smug about all this, they are not without flaws. Many display an alarming willingness to eat things that are clearly not food. Or food that is clearly not theirs. Their decision-making can occasionally be questioned. And no serious ethical framework can entirely account for the urge to roll in fox poo. Yes, Willow: I'm looking at you.

But on the important matters, they have much to teach us.

Love the people you love.

Forgive quickly.

Take joy seriously.

Greet friends enthusiastically.

Go outside regularly.

Be curious.

Accept affection.

Offer affection.

And never underestimate the restorative power of a nap.

Perhaps that's why dogs occupy such a special place in so many of our family stories. Not because they're pets, but because they're companions. Daily reminders of what matters. Small (sometimes not-so-small) furry philosophers wandering through our lives, demonstrating that happiness may be rather less complicated than we've made it.

So if you're looking for a practical guide to living a good humanist life, you could do worse than paying attention to the dog snoring quietly beside your chair.

Cherish the now.

Chase the fun.

Don't worry too much about tomorrow.

And remember this: if you've got people who love you, a warm hearth, a comfortable bed and a few treats in the cupboard, you're probably doing better than you think.

Though the odd tummy tickle helps too.

Susy McPhee is a humanist wedding and funeral celebrant based in Argyll, Scotland. She creates warm, personal ceremonies for weddings, funerals and naming ceremonies, and has a particular soft spot for couples who insist that their dogs be part of their special day.