Now the humans have turned this into a ceremonial discipline, conducted with the gravity of The Boss planting his garlic and the budget of a council roadworks project.
The Boss is reading me an article about “nervous-system regulation” while I’m stretched out beside the fire — as if I need any instructions on the matter. I regulate my nervous system by repositioning when necessary, and it’s free.
Human wellness, by contrast, seems to involve a series of expensive rituals that can end with somebody lying perfectly still in a dark room — except they call it an ‘experience’ if there is a lavender candle burning.
Take cold-water therapy. It sounds like being dropped into the dairy farmer’s dam for character building. Or sauna sessions, where humans willingly sit in a hot wooden box and sweat like a Sunday roast in its own tray, apparently in pursuit of clarity. Dogs have been doing this under a gum tree on summer afternoons for eons, and without the monthly membership fees.
But the new young rich have gone full sci-fi. Blood swapped out, filtered and pumped with plasma from someone half their age. Then there are the red-light face masks — a blinking, demonic glow said to stimulate collagen.
You know what else stimulates collagen? Embracing the sag. Look at my jowls. They are magnificent, velvet sails of structural decay. They catch the drool perfectly.
Others have taken to standing inside giant metal tubes filled with liquid nitrogen. Cryotherapy. I’ve been outside when it's freezing — you poke your nose out, do a quick, panicked pee, and immediately demand to be let back in with the urgency of a hostage negotiation.
Humans are voluntarily turning themselves into frozen peas in the name of longevity.
Then there are the wearables. Little glowing rings, bracelets and watches that tell humans how well they slept, how hard they walked, where their blood pressure is at and whether they are sufficiently hydrated. We had a version of this long before smart technology. It’s called a nose. Dry nose means water. Wagging tail means go. Wet nose pressed hard against the pantry door means something has gone missing. That is measurable wellness.
The newest craze, The Boss tells me, is dopamine fasting — sitting in a chair, staring at a blank wall, refusing to look at your glowing rectangle or eat anything tasty for an entire day.
What strikes me most is the solemnity. Humans approach self-care as though repairing a delicate machine. But the body mostly wants food, sleep, touch, sunlight, a walk and fewer idiots.
That is where dogs have always had the edge. We do not need a retreat. We are a retreat. We do not need a mindfulness practice — we have staring out the front window with deep, historical suspicion, which is a spiritual discipline in its own right.
The great truth of the wellness boom: humans are spending a fortune to rediscover the plain business of being a mammal. They are paying for silence, rest, a decent breath, a walk in fresh air — for someone to tell them what an old dog already knows.
Still, I am not without sympathy. If the humans wish to sit in a tub of ice and call it living, I say good luck to them.
I will be by the fire, practising my own advanced biohacking: snoring loudly enough to wake the dead. Woof!
