Alexandra Horowitz, the head scientist at Barnard College’s Dog Cognition Lab, has conducted a longitudinal observational study on the first year of life of a member of Canis lupus familiaris. In other words, like many others, Horowitz got a pandemic puppy. And she paid a lot of attention to that puppy, whom she and her family named Quiddity, or Quid, meaning “essence of.” She chronicles this in “The Year of the Puppy,” a book with an unsurprisingly adorable cover.
Since Horowitz already had two dogs, a cat, and a son, her motivation for getting a puppy is somewhat convincingly presented as being in the service of science. Horowitz has written several popular books about dogs and dog science: “Our Dogs, Ourselves,” “Being a Dog,” and “Inside of a Dog: What Dogs See, Smell, and Know.” In her new book, Horowitz’s goal is to think and write about dogs in a way that is distinct from usual pet-related fare about how to teach a puppy not to lunge at children and not to increase your household paper-towel budget. Instead, she aims to try to better understand a young dog, from Day One to day three hundred and sixty-five, as a being in transformation. She wants to write about puppies developmentally.
Quid and I have struck a deal. Every morning she flies up the stairs, leaps onto our bed, and attacks my nose with her sharp little teeth. And I am awakened.
Oh wait, no; we don’t have a deal. She just does that. It is vexing and charming at once. Just at the moment of nose-attack I can smell the sleep collected on her breath and fur. It mingles with the odor of the other dogs in the room and is beginning to smell, to me, like home. It has been six months since she left her natal litter of 10 siblings and joined our family of three humans, two dogs, and one cat.
And it has been a few months since she went from being a very young puppy to an adolescent, her brain trailing her body in development. Recently, she has become more interested in contact of any sort with us. She minds where we are, beating a hasty path after us if we rise from a chair to leave the room, sometimes licking our ankles as we go. She lies next to me on the couch, her body contorted to maximize body-to-body contact.
Muick and Sandy are two young corgis that Prince Andrew, one of the queen’s sons, and his daughters gave her in 2021. The present was intended to lift her spirits after her husband, Prince Philip, died.
Perhaps it isn’t surprising that Las Vegas has a selection of restaurants and bars that welcome customers’ dogs. The city has one of the highest dog park rates per capita in the country.
This is good news for dog lovers who know that the happiest hour at any bar takes place when both two-legged and four-legged patrons are served. Showing up to brunch with a canine companion might be a serious faux pas in some cities, but the places featured on this map welcome the presence of puppies.
Sorry, dog owners: Insisting your pet is the cutest creature on Earth doesn’t necessarily make it true.
Some dog breeds are objectively more adorable than others—at least according to a mathematical ratio that appears frequently in art and nature.
To quantify cuteness in dog breeds, MoneyBeach judged their face shapes against the Golden Ratio. This number (1.618 when rounded) shows up when the ratio of two quantities is the same as the ratio of their sum to the larger of the two quantities. Put more simply, it’s when the smaller is to the larger as the larger is to the whole.
Even if you can’t grasp the math behind it, you likely respond to the Golden Ratio when you see it. It appears in such aesthetic marvels as nautilus shells, Leonardo da Vinci’s “Vitruvian Man,” and Robert Pattinson’s face. The facial configurations of many dog breeds also approach this magic number.