Treating People Like Dogs

You know, there are days, most days honestly, when you just feel… like you’re living on a leash. Not a physical one, of course, that’d be too obvious, too crude. No, it’s a leash made of expectation, of thinly veiled threats, of crumbs dropped just often enough to keep you from walking away entirely. It’s this slow, grinding realization that you’re being treated like a dog. Not a beloved family pet, mind you, the kind that sleeps on the couch and gets gourmet kibble. No, more like… the working dog. The one expected to perform, to obey, to be grateful for whatever scraps are tossed its way, and to never, ever question the hand that feeds it.

It starts subtly, doesn’t it? A slightly unreasonable demand here, a dismissive tone there. You brush it off. “Bad day,” you tell yourself. “Under pressure.” But then it escalates. The hours stretch, blurring into a seamless, exhausting cycle. Your personal life? Ha! That’s a luxury you forfeited the moment you signed on the dotted line – or perhaps, the moment you became dependent. They demand your unconditional loyalty. Like a dog waiting patiently by the door, tail wagging, just for a glance, a pat on the head. And you give it, initially. You work late. You jump when they whistle. You sacrifice your weekends, your sleep, your sanity. Why? Because you’re told it’s required. It’s part of the deal. It’s what dedicated people do.

And what do you get for this unwavering devotion? Scraps. Oh, you might get a performance review where they grudgingly admit you’re “meeting expectations” – the equivalent of a dry biscuit. Or a small, insulting bonus after you’ve moved mountains, while they feast on the prime cuts you helped create. They dangle the promise of a bigger bone, a better kennel, later. Always later. Just keep performing. Keep obeying. Don’t make a fuss. Wag your tail, look hopeful, and wait.

The worst part, though? It’s the erosion of your dignity. You’re praised for being obedient, for not rocking the boat. Your opinions are tolerated only if they align perfectly with the “master’s.” Any independent thought, any suggestion that deviates from the predetermined path, is met with a sharp look, a clipped word, a clear signal that you’ve stepped out of line. Like a dog getting a yank on the collar. Stay. Heel. Sit. Your intelligence, your creativity, your humanity – none of that is the point. The point is your utility. Your ability to follow commands and perform tasks. You are a tool. A resource. An asset to be managed, much like one manages livestock or… well, a pet. A working animal.

And the control. Oh god, the pervasive control. It’s not just about the work. It bleeds into everything. Your time is not your own. Your energy is not your own. Even your thoughts feel policed sometimes. You hesitate before speaking up, running a quick calculation: will this be accepted? Or will it earn me a growl? You start self-censoring, learning to bark only the approved barks. You see others who tried to assert themselves, who dared to show a little independence, and they’re… gone. Or sidelined. Sent to the metaphorical pound. It’s a powerful lesson. Be a good dog. Know your place.

There’s this constant underlying tension. You’re necessary, yes, but you’re also disposable. The moment you stop being perfectly useful, perfectly compliant? There’s always another dog waiting outside the gate, eager for the chance to fetch and carry. They make sure you know that, implicitly or explicitly. “We need people who are team players,” they’ll say, code for “We need people who will do exactly what they’re told without complaint.” It fosters a climate of fear, a subtle, constant anxiety. Am I good enough? Am I loyal enough? Will I be cast out?

It does something to your spirit, living like this. You start internalizing it. You lower your expectations. You stop dreaming of running free, of chasing your own squirrels. Your world shrinks to the confines of the yard, the routine of the walk, the anticipation of the next meal or pat. You forget what it feels like to stand upright, to make your own choices, to be seen and valued not for your usefulness, but for your self. You become proficient at the dog tricks. You learn to fetch, roll over, play dead emotionally when needed.

And the worst betrayal? When they act like they care. The performative pats, the empty words of appreciation (“Good boy!”), the staged moments of “team building” that feel less like genuine connection and more like throwing a bunch of dogs into a pen together and expecting them to play nice. It’s a manipulation, a way to extract even more loyalty and effort under the guise of benevolence. It’s the ultimate insult – not just treating you like an animal, but pretending they’re doing it out of affection.

Is it just me? Is it my job? My situation? I look around, and I see glimpses of it everywhere. The gig economy worker, hustling for pennies, completely dependent on the algorithm’s favor. The low-wage employee with erratic hours, unable to plan, unable to save, living perpetually hand-to-mouth, beholden to a manager’s whims. The student buried in debt, chasing a piece of paper that might, might, get them a slightly larger biscuit. It feels endemic. A system designed to keep people hungry enough to obey, busy enough to not think, and tired enough to not fight back.

They call it structure. They call it discipline. They call it efficiency. But when the structure feels like a cage, the discipline feels like breaking your will, and the efficiency is measured in how much blood, sweat, and tears they can wring out of you for the least possible return… that’s not building something together. That’s not leadership. That’s just… ownership. And you are the property.

Sometimes, late at night, when the house is quiet, and the email notifications have finally stopped pinging, I sit there and feel the phantom weight of the collar, the subtle ache from the invisible leash. I miss the wildness. I miss the freedom to just be. To sniff around without permission, to chase a fleeting thought just because it’s interesting, to rest when I’m tired without feeling like I’m failing. I see people who seem… free. Who walk with their heads held high, who speak their minds, who set their own pace. And I wonder, how? How did they break the leash? Or were they just never collared in the first place?

Maybe it’s about remembering you’re not a dog. Remembering you have a voice, even if it trembles. Remembering you have legs, capable of walking in a different direction. Remembering you deserve more than scraps, more than conditional affection, more than a life dictated by whistles and commands. It’s hard, though. The training runs deep. The fear is real. But maybe, just maybe, the first step is acknowledging the cage. The first step is admitting that, yes, you’ve been treated like a dog. And the next? Well, that’s the scary part. The part where you might have to bite the hand that feeds, or at least, finally, definitively, walk away from the kennel. It’s a terrifying thought. But staying? Staying feels like slow death. A slow, quiet, obedient death. And maybe, just maybe, I still have a little bit of the wolf left in me. A little bit of something that refuses, absolutely refuses, to just lie down and roll over forever.

The echoes of the whistle, though. They linger. Always.