Should Dogs Be Owned?

The question of whether dogs should be owned touches not merely on the surface arrangements of modern pet-keeping, but on the deeper nature of the human-animal bond, and indeed, on what it means for man to take responsibility for another living being. In a Western, Judeo-Christian understanding of the world, man is not an autonomous creature adrift in an indifferent cosmos. He is, rather, a steward—granted both dominion and duty over the living world. This dual calling, first given in Genesis 1:26–28, is not a license for self-indulgence nor a justification for exploitation; it is a charge to “rule over” with care, mirroring God’s own governance—firm, just, and compassionate.

This vision of animal husbandry, unique in its fullness to the Western Judeo-Christian ethic, stands apart from other cultural arrangements because it seeks the flourishing of both man and animal as God’s creation. Here, a dog’s worth is not measured merely in utility, nor its care limited to the bare necessities of survival. Instead, the goal is to meet the creature’s physical needs while honoring its spirit, instincts, and God-given nature. Proverbs 12:10 states, “The righteous care for the needs of their animals,” a truth echoed in Jewish law, where the Talmud instructs that one must feed their animals before sitting down to their own meal (Berakhot 40a). These teachings form the backbone of the Western ideal: the belief that a creature entrusted to human care must never be neglected, for such neglect is a stain upon one’s moral character.

Throughout Western history, this ethic has been visible in laws, customs, and literature. Medieval Christian monasteries, guided by the Benedictine Rule, kept working dogs not only for utility but for companionship, ensuring they were well-fed and sheltered. In Victorian England, heavily shaped by Christian moral reformers, animal welfare laws such as the Cruel Treatment of Cattle Act (1822) and the founding of the RSPCA were born from the conviction that cruelty to animals was a sin against both the creature and the Creator. From the shepherd tending his flock in Psalm 23 to St. Francis of Assisi’s reverence for all living things, the Western tradition consistently frames animals not as mere possessions, but as dependents under the moral care of man.

Other civilizations, though they may have admirable customs, often fall short of this ideal when it comes to domesticated animals. Some Native American traditions rightly seek to honor the taking of a wild animal’s life, using every part so that nothing is wasted. Yet their dogs, like those in many pre-industrial societies, were often left to roam, fend for themselves, and scavenge for food, forming loose affiliations with human camps rather than true households. In rural Africa, where I have lived, dogs are even more primitive in their treatment—left to starve if hunting is poor, denied medical care, and regarded less as companions than as vermin-controllers or warning alarms against intruders. Even within the West, there are deviations from the ideal—religious communities such as the Amish are infamous for running “puppy mills” where dogs are bred in cramped, filthy conditions with little human affection. Yet these failings do not invalidate the ideal itself.

The point is not that every Westerner perfectly fulfills this calling, but that the Western Judeo-Christian framework provides the highest standard toward which to strive: the belief that animals, as fellow creatures under God’s care, deserve not only survival, but a life in which their nature is respected and their relationship with humanity is mutually enriching. This moral architecture—rooted in covenant, compassion, and order—remains the surest guide for the ethical treatment of domesticated animals. As Deuteronomy 25:4 commands, “Do not muzzle an ox while it is treading out the grain,” the Western ideal recognizes that even in labor, a creature’s dignity and well-being must be preserved.

Domestication, at its best, is one of the most profound expressions of this calling. The dog, whose ancestors roamed the Ice Age in the form of the gray wolf, did not wander into human society as a slave or a captive. Rather, in the long shadow of campfires millennia ago, certain wolves drew near to man, and man, discerning both utility and companionship, drew near in turn. It was not ownership in the crass, possessive sense. It was the joining of two predators into one hunting party, two sentient actors into one shared destiny. Over time, the partnership changed both species; shaping the wolf into the dog, and shaping man into something more human for having learned loyalty, cooperation, and empathy from his four-legged ally.

Yet we must not lose sight of what life was like before this alliance; before civilization itself. In the wild, every mouthful of food must be wrestled from a world that does not care whether you live or die. For the wolf, the winter hunt may end in lean hunger, the pup left to whimper beside the body of a now lifeless mother. For man, the same cold meant brittle fingers, disease without cure, and nights spent in darkness, listening to the predators’ howl from beyond the fire’s reach. Nature in its rawest form is both beautiful and brutal. Its beauty lies in the strength and resilience it demands; its brutality in the way it culls without pity.

And yet, we are not meant to abandon nature entirely, nor to seal ourselves in a world of plastic and concrete, as if our human ingenuity alone could replace the very earth that gave us birth. To live without the rhythms of sun and season, without the smell of soil or the feel of wind, is to live as something less than whole. We may tame nature, yes, indeed we must, but taming does not mean erasing. It means ordering its chaos, guiding its unpredictability into patterns that allow life to thrive.

Those who say “dogs should not be owned” often imagine that freedom from human oversight is itself a gift. Yet, in nature, freedom is no gentle benevolence. It is the freedom to starve in winter, to be torn by stronger predators, to live and die without the faintest touch of healing hands. Civilization exists to lift beings out of such brutality. When rightly ordered, the human household is a safer, richer, more meaningful habitat for the dog than the indifferent wilderness could ever offer.

The moral danger lies not in ownership itself, but in ownership degraded. This happens when the human keeper views the dog as a novelty, a possession, or a mere object for personal amusement. It also appears when affection warps into indulgence that robs the animal of its strength and dignity. We see neglect when a puppy is purchased on impulse because its face looked “cute” in an online photo, only to be discarded when training becomes inconvenient. We see exploitation when a dog is kept as a living ornament. Its coat dyed unnatural colors, paraded in designer clothing, and treated more as a fashion accessory than a living soul. But we also see harm in the opposite extreme, when love is stripped of wisdom: the overfed dog whose joints ache under the weight of excess, the anxious pup never taught boundaries or independence, the breed exaggerated for “cuteness” until it cannot breathe, run, or give birth naturally. Whether the cruelty is cold and careless or warm and smothering, both violate the covenant upon which domestication rests, for they strip the dog of its God-given purpose and the wholeness of its nature. The answer, then, is not to dissolve the bond, but to restore it; to teach and expect of humans a standard of care and respect worthy of the trust their dogs place in them.

Thus, in the light of a Judeo-Christian ethic, the answer to the question is yes, dogs should be “owned” if by ownership we mean the guardianship of a life entrusted to our care. Not as commodities, but as companions; not as property to be disposed of, but as fellow creatures whose lives we have chosen to intertwine with our own. When man lives up to this calling, both he and the dog are elevated beyond what they could have been alone; two species walking side by side toward something greater, as they have since the first fires burned in the dark.

It is this vision, rooted in the Western ideal, that offers the fullest picture of what ethical animal husbandry can be. Here, ownership is not domination but stewardship; not sentimentality, but covenant. It calls us to provide shelter without excessive confinement, affection without indulgence, discipline without cruelty. It asks that we honor the instincts God placed within the dog while guiding them into the safety and purpose of a civilized life. No other cultural framework, however admirable in parts, has produced such a balance of care, respect, and mutual flourishing between man and animal. And though many in the West fall short of this high standard, the standard itself remains worth preserving, defending, and passing on.

For when the covenant between man and dog is kept in this way, the result is not merely the survival of the animal or the satisfaction of the owner. It is the forging of a bond that reflects something higher; a harmony between species that mirrors the harmony we ourselves are called to seek with the Creator. In such a bond, both man and dog become more than they would have been alone. This is the true gift of the Western tradition, and the true answer to the question: yes, dogs should be owned, but owned in the way God Himself would have us keep them.

Jennifer Stoeckl is the co-founder and CEO of the Dire Wolf Project™, founder of the DireWolf Guardians™ American Dirus Dog Training Program, and owner/operator of DireWolf Dogs™ of Vallecito and the DireWolf Express™. She lives in the beautiful inland northwest among the Ponderosa pine forests with her pack of American Dirus™ dogs with her husband, Jay.