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May 17 / Dr Teresa Tyler

Reciprocity: Rethinking Our Relationships with Dogs and Other Non-Human Animals

This morning, I stepped into the garden just before sunrise. The air was warm, the overnight chill of a few weeks back now gone. My dog, half-asleep but alert to movement, followed me out. No cue, no lead, just quiet presence. As I stood, mug of tea in hand, she lingered beside me without expectation. Not performing, not waiting. Just being. With me.

Moments like this invite pause. They offer no immediate purpose. They don’t illustrate training progress, nor do they serve a behavioural goal. Yet, they speak to something essential, something often lost in the task-oriented, behavioural frameworks through which we’ve come to view our relationships with animals.

 

We are conditioned to see our interactions with non-human animals, particularly companion species such as dogs, through a functional lens. The prevailing narrative centres around control, cooperation, and compliance. Even in the most well-intentioned circles, we tend to measure a dog’s worth by their behaviour;  how well they walk on a lead, how reliably they respond to cues, how easily they slot into the human household.

But such measures obscure the relational nature of the bond. The idea that we are not simply shaping animals to fit our world, but that we are in relationship with them, an ongoing, mutual dynamic, deserves greater attention.

 

At the core of this relationship is reciprocity. Not in the narrow transactional sense of ‘you give, I give’, but in the broader ethical sense of mutual responsiveness. Reciprocity recognises the other as a subject in their own right, not merely an object of care, training, or affection. It invites us to consider not only what non-human animals do for us, but what they experience with us and what they may be asking from us in return.

 

Philosopher Martin Buber famously distinguished between ‘I-It’ and ‘I-Thou’ relationships. The former treats the other as an object to be known, used, or managed. The latter acknowledges the other as a being with their own centre of experience, worthy of encounter rather than use. This distinction is not merely abstract. It applies viscerally to how we relate to non-human animals.

 

Dogs are remarkably adept at drawing us into I-Thou moments, if we allow it of course. Their social sensitivity, their capacity to read human emotion, and their willingness to engage in shared routines all speak to a kind of co-agency or kinship . They are not passive recipients of training or care; they are co-creators of the relational space we inhabit with them.

Yet this reciprocity is often unbalanced. We routinely make demands of dogs such as demands for proximity, stillness, affection, performance, without affording them the same latitude. We interpret their hesitations or refusals through behavioural labels, rather than as communicative acts. We enter their space without pause, touch without invitation, dismiss their discomfort as ‘reactivity’ or ‘stubbornness’. In doing so, we assert ownership rather than partnership.

 


A more reciprocal relationship would begin with humility.

It would acknowledge the asymmetry inherent in our roles. We hold the power of food, shelter, and movement but would seek to exercise that power with ethical restraint. It would ask: How do I centre your needs, your choices, and your agency, alongside my own?

 

In practice, reciprocity is not always convenient. It might mean allowing detours on walks, slowing our expectations for learning, or respecting a dog’s need for space. It may also require us to rethink established norms about training, or dominance, even about the presumed superiority of human goals.

 

And while dogs offer perhaps the clearest mirror to reflect on this dynamic, the principle extends further. If we accept the moral relevance of a dog’s experience, then what of horses? Cats? Captive wild animals? Livestock?

Reciprocity challenges the ethical boundaries we draw between species. It suggests that the quality of our relationships with non-human animals cannot be fully captured by compliance, affection, or even welfare metrics. It is better measured by the depth of our attention, our responsiveness, and our willingness to be changed by the encounter.

 

In my own work with dogs, especially those considered ‘difficult’ or ‘fearful’, I have found that progress rarely comes through pressure. It emerges instead in the slow work of trust. In the rhythm of attunement. In a mutual negotiation of space, pace, and expectation. What begins as behaviour work often becomes something closer to a conversation, albeit one spoken through movement, gaze, breath or a look.

 

Perhaps the most meaningful question we can ask of ourselves is not, how do I get my dog to listen? but rather, am I truly listening in return?

Reciprocity is not soft or sentimental. It is rigorous. It requires attentiveness, ethical consistency, and an openness to re-evaluate our assumptions about control, agency, and care. It asks us not simply to manage animals, but to meet them.

And in doing so, it offers the possibility of relationship not defined by hierarchy, but by co-presence. Not ownership, but companionship. Not dominance, but dialogue.


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