“Just because we can doesn’t mean we should”

On spending the night at a dog friendly (dog free for all) hotel

This morning we woke in the parking lot of a Moab hotel. Field Station offers a van life package where you can enjoy amenities without paying for a physical room—you get a standard-sized parking spot just outside their pool gate and access to a communal shower and free reign of the coffee-shop-esque lobby. Oh, and the entire place is dog friendly.

Yesterday evening Sean and I sat in the cafe, fingers on laptop keys, sipping a latte before heading out for a Halloween dinner date. I’d almost brought Scout with us. Settling in places like this is one of her best skills—she’ll plop immediately down on whatever mat or blanket we bring, quietly observe our surroundings, and occasionally ask for treats. I decided against it because I didn’t know what the situation would be like (and needed to focus on almost-overdue revisions for a piece about, ironically, her).

Ten minutes in I knew leaving her behind was the right choice. A man appeared with two miniature American shepherds at the end of their leashes, barking and pulling and generally looking like they couldn’t decide if they were overwhelmed-excited to be there or overwhelmed-stressed to be there. They were cute. Their handler was friendly. Everyone meant well! But they took up the whole walkway, stretched in every direction at once, created a scene. As the dogs vocalized at an approaching stranger with outstretched hands the man proclaimed how thrilled he is “the world is becoming more dog friendly”. Sean’s gaze met mine above our screens, raised eyebrows mirrored.

At sunrise I took Scout for her morning bathroom break and almost immediately encountered two off-leash dogs in the pet relief area. Thankfully I spotted them in time—we crossed the parking lot, the handler took the hint, and my heeler shook off the moment of stress without incident. But later, as Sean and I passed the outdoor firepit, they were there again: this time leashed but dragging the lines more than a dozen feet from the man who, when he checked into the hotel, was required to promise he’d keep full control of his pets.

And as we settled with breakfast around the flames—Scout tucked safely in her van, at this point we’d decided we wouldn’t subject her to central communal areas if we didn’t have to—four more humans brought three more dogs to enjoy the warmth. They weren’t doing anything “wrong”. They held the leashes this time, acknowledged the other guests, weren’t completely oblivious. But there was still no way anyone could sit around the firepit without coming into contact with them.

I like a dog-friendly place. Really: I love dogs. I love seeing them with their people when it goes well, the way our ancestors laid the foundation for tens of thousands of years ago, full of mutual harmony and joy. I don’t love when dog-friendly places become dog free for alls. And I resent the idea that “dogs allowed” means everyone who enters an area—human or canine—must tolerate being sniffed over and jumped on and barked at.

Scout could do these things. She could sit, quietly and politely, next to us around a communal fire with whining dogs nearby. She could contain her worry, especially with my support, in the hotel’s lobby as a pair of canines pulled towards her. For years our training centered around her fear-based dog reactivity, culminating in impressive (to me, anyway, especially after all we’ve been through) neutrality. But she wouldn’t enjoy the circumstances. I wouldn’t be able to relax into my reading or my writing without glancing over my shoulder.

And just because we can doesn’t mean we should.

On occasion, even after all these years processing and journaling and shouting about internal growth, I still struggle with the reality that I don’t bring my dog certain places not because of a fault in her but because I can’t trust fellow owners. My heeler’s only request is that no dog yells in her face, that no stranger invades her direct personal space, that permission is asked before we are cornered without means of escape.

Earlier in my journey with Scout I thought if I trained her perfectly—if I just did the right things—there’d be no environment in which we couldn’t thrive. In a way that’s true (depending on how we define thrive). We have done these things. We have more than survived them. I’ve forced her to sit at dog-friendly breweries while corgis come within two feet. I’ve worked her through group classes where bully mixes continually break commands to try sniffing her butt.

It just sparks no joy.

If Scout didn’t handle alone time in Hermes? If it wasn’t safe to leave her behind? We’d bring her along (and advocate constantly). We’d stay back with her. We’d all simply go elsewhere. If routinely required, we’d push ourselves further in hopes that out-of-control-dog chaos became increasingly easy and decreasingly stressful. If the hours inside the hotel lobby were her only chance to spend time with us on a day packed with necessary humans-only activities? We’d make a different choice.

But last night and this morning, for a brief period of writing in a change of scenery, the “right” choice was opting out.

And hoping to plant seeds.

When a guy and his beautiful mutt sat near us and he asked her for a down stay—and she complied!—I complimented them profusely. When the leash-dragging doodles came in through the patio doors and tried running up to her under the table, I affirmed his request for space. When they got up to leave, I thanked him for restoring some of my faith in responsible dog ownership.

Fifty minutes later I returned to my own companion. Her eyes squinty with sleep, her tail circling with the joy of our reunion, she told me I’d done right by her.