By Sandra Hurtes
The essay below arose from a prompt in a class I took with “Narratively,” an online magazine on Substack. Here is a brief excerpt:
“Today’s not-sad topic is: animals! For this generative day, I want you to write about happy animal things.”
I could have reached into childhood and written about my beloved bird Pokey. But that felt forced. I gave the prompt a twist and wrote about an animal currently on my mind.
To begin, I am not a dog person. Please don’t hate me. I am nice as can be to dogs. I don’t actually pet them, but I do nod and smile, especially when they wear red booties and yellow slickers on rainy days.
Growing up in Crown Heights in the 1950s and ’60s, dogs were strays that wandered the streets, sniffed around garbage cans, barked, violently it seemed to me, a sensitive kid with a mother terrified of dogs. She had good reason to be; dogs were used to frighten concentration camp prisoners at Auschwitz, where my mother was interred. Now, you may still choose to hate me, but certainly not my mother.
If she were still alive, I doubt she would ever visit me. My apartment building seems to have as many dogs as tenants. Each dog is beloved by their owners, building staff, and most who come and go through the entryway. The doormen feed them snacks and pet them so intently, when I stand at the desk to collect my packages, I am reluctant to disturb the love-fest.
Some of the dogs are little scrunchy things (who but a non-dog person could describe a dog in such a way?) Many are mid-sized snobs with their rhinestone collars or leather leashes; there is one bulldog (no comment) and a few that could vie for first prize in a pony contest. (I never get in the elevator with them, mouthing to the owners, “I have Covid.”).
I have been ignored by friends cooing to a dog when, after a night out, I said “Goodnight, guys, there’s my bus,” only to wait, in vain, for someone to notice. Ditto for an Upper West Side therapist (you know how they are) who kissed her dog while caressing it like a baby during my session.
I was in a crowded coffee shop recently when a fluffy dog stood on its hind legs and put its paws on the counter. The barista pet and cooed, while the only thing that steamed from the artisan brews was me.
“You will wash your hands before making my coffee?” I bravely asked.
The crowd of patrons went quiet. Really? I wanted to dash out. But I stayed while the customer reined in her dog, and the barista (reluctantly) washed her hands. I took my to-go cup before she could place it on the wet counter. I wandered to the popular “Healthy” Food supermarket at the corner. A couple strolled through the doorway, past the “NO PETS” sign, their collie in tow. I pointed to the sign and looked at the security guard. He shrugged. I shrugged and went in, too.
©2026 Sandra Hurtes
Sandra Hurtes is a writer and teacher living in New York. Her work has appeared in The New York Times, The Washington Post, Poets & Writers, Women in Judaism, and numerous other publications.
