I spend a mildly concerning amount of time wondering what dogs think about all day. And based on the evidence, their inner monologue has to be spectacular.
Because dogs operate with a mix of confidence, confusion, and emotional intensity that absolutely suggests a running commentary like this:
“Ah. You’re awake. Excellent. I was monitoring your breathing. I will now escort you to the bathroom for safety.”
Dogs behave as though humans are fragile beings who require supervision at all times.
Brushing your teeth? Observed.
Showering? They’re stationed outside the curtain like anxious Secret Service agents.
Folding laundry? They lie directly in the walkway like well-meaning but immovable obstacles.
Half the time they’re probably thinking:
“I’m not sure what you’re doing, but I’m confident you shouldn’t do it alone.”
And the food reaction. The absolute theater.
You can serve the exact same kibble they’ve eaten twice a day for seven years and every single time it’s:
“FOR ME? This feast? Again? I assumed supplies had run dry forever.”
No memory. Full gratitude. Academy Award–level performance.
Then there’s the outside obsession.
Not to accomplish anything. Not to achieve a goal.
Just to go out, stand still for eight seconds, inhale deeply, and then stare at the door like:
“I have surveyed the land. We may return.”
Dogs also possess wildly inflated views of their own importance.
Leaf movement equals danger. Car doors demand surveillance. Squirrels require swift and decisive action.
Meanwhile the “danger” detected is merely a breeze, the same neighbor who has lived there for a decade, or a plastic bag minding its own business.
But internally:
“Fear not, citizens. I have barked. Disaster averted.”
As for personal space? That is an irrelevant concept.
They believe — with their entire soul — that your lap is always available, regardless of size ratios or physics.
“You appear emotionally unstable. I will assist by applying full body weight.”
And yet, the theory I am absolutely convinced is true: Dogs genuinely believe we are extraordinary.
They watch us like we personally invented doors. Like operating the refrigerator is wizardry. Like finding our shoes is a heroic act.
Meanwhile we can’t locate our phone while actively holding it.
Dogs don’t know we’re flawed.
They don’t know we’re tired or overwhelmed.
They don’t question our competence.
They think we hung the moon.
And the sun.
And possibly invented the concept of snacks.
Which might be the funniest — and sweetest — thing about them.
They live in a steady state of joy, awe, mild concern, and complete devotion.
Which means somewhere out there is a creature who thinks you’re absolutely crushing it.