My Shepherd, my shadow, my regret

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Every morning starts with my dog, Atlas. Rain or shine, we go out to play for about an hour.

She's my shadow, my furry therapist, and honestly, the best alarm clock I’ve ever had. But I can't help but think I made a mistake.

As you know, I spend a lot of time thinking about the state of collapsing systems, the climate crisis, and the resource hunger of modern life. And I look at Atlas, 70-something pounds of muscle and brain, and I have to ask: Is it ethical to have a pet?

I got her for companionship, security, and the pure, uncomplicated joy only a dog can provide. But now, I’m deep in the weeds of environmental guilt, and I need to figure out what her true cost is.

The numbers, when you actually look at them, are staggering. Atlas is a big dog. She eats a lot. And that food is overwhelmingly meat-based. I've read articles suggesting that the average medium-to-large dog has an environmental impact comparable to driving a small SUV, or even, creating another human child. I'm not sure about that - my dog lives a fairly minimalist lifestyle, mostly using what I already have.

Stull, that last comparison sticks in my throat. We talk about reducing births, reducing consumption, shrinking our footprint, yet here I am, caring for a creature that generates a massive resource demand. It feels deeply contradictory. Am I sacrificing my principles for companionship? Given the inevitability of our predicament, does it even matter?

This is where the second-guessing really hits. If we are genuinely committed to living lightly on the earth, must we deprive ourselves of all non-human companionship?

Dogs ground you. This means that the anxieties about abstract global futures are instantly replaced by a tangible, immediate reality. Atlas doesn't care about the collapse of the global economy; she cares that the sun is shining and she needs to pee.

Dogs require me to be present. I can't ignore the walk, the feeding schedule, or the sudden need for a belly rub. This forces presence, breaking the cycle of obsessive worry and returning my attention to the here and now.

Their world is simple: safety, food, love, work and play. This simplicity provides a necessary mental contrast to the complexity of human life. You shift your focus from massive, unsolvable problems to small, solvable tasks—caring for another being. This daily, rhythmic focus on a non-human creature is a massive aid to my emotional stability.

Studies show that petting a dog releases oxytocin and lowers cortisol in both the human and the dog. We literally become calmer, better-regulated people because of this physiological feedback loop. We may not become "better" people in a moral sense, but we become healthier and more resilient people.

Beyond the emotional grounding, the pet relationship provides practical skills and benefits that speak directly to the mindset of preparedness and independence. In a solitary life, caring for a dependent creature provides a sense of mission and importance outside of your own survival. Perhaps that is a selfish view.

The dog's sensory world is orders of magnitude better than ours. She alerts me to changes in the environment, acting as an essential early warning system. When social contracts break down, the unconditional loyalty of a dog is an unwavering psychological anchor. There is no negotiation, no betrayal, just partnership.

The individual preparing for collapse is typically self-reliant, often skeptical of crowds, and often focused on maintaining independence. A dog, particularly a highly intelligent, working breed like a German Shepherd, becomes the quintessential partner in this scenario. A large dog is an excellent, non-lethal deterrent to human and animal threats, providing a line of defense.

Breeds like Shepherds thrive on having a job. In a collapse scenario, that job becomes vigilance, resource guarding, or tracking. This satisfies both the human's need for security and the dog's need for purpose, making the relationship transactional in the best sense.

Unlike a human partner, a dog requires no complex emotional negotiation, political alignment, or resource sharing debate—only clear direction and provision. This suits the temperament of someone who values solitude and simple, efficient partnership.

I'm not sure if I regret getting my dog. She’s here, she’s my responsibility, and her life matters. But the fact that she is here makes me pay closer attention to how I live.

Despite the benefits, next time (and there might not be a "next time" if I’m honest) will require closer analysis of the tradeoffs. The pet-human relationship is complex. It's a profound benefit for us, but it’s a costly choice for the planet.

Still, I am drawn to dogs more than other humans. Am i being selfish and hypocritical wanting a working dog and companion?

I’m still trying to figure that out.