I’ve been spending time lately trying to grow the readership of my essays — Facebook, Medium, Behiiv, the usual suspects. Watching the number of views, a post generates is one way to gauge reach, though I’m cautious not to put too much weight on it. A “view” is not a measure of quality. It’s barely a measure of anything at all.
Writers always struggle with identifying their audience. In business, they call it “target buyers.” In writing, it’s more like throwing a message in a bottle and hoping someone on the other shore picks it up. In the end, a writer writes. Whether the piece is read or not is almost beside the point.
It’s like the musician who long ago gave up the dream of making a living from music but still jumps at the chance to play a $50 gig at a local pub. He knows the room will be full of people more interested in their conversations than the guy with the guitar. It doesn’t matter. He performs because that’s what he does. Writers write.
In my case, the world around me is constantly generating commentary in my head. I rarely plan what I’m going to write. It’s the same as when I speak: I start talking with no idea where I’ll end up. You can imagine the trouble that causes when my mouth outruns my forethought. Somewhere in my brain the whole idea must exist, but so far it hasn’t deemed it necessary to send me advance notice.
Writing is safer. At least I can edit after the initial spew.
Which brings me to the title of this piece: Dogs, Cats & Fascism. You’re probably wondering what any of this has to do with dogs and cats. Notice I didn’t say “Fascism.” That word is in the title, but I doubt you clicked because you were eager for a discussion of authoritarian political movements. If I tagged this post with “fascism,” only a handful of people would find it.
How do I know? Because I’ve spent months writing about the patterns of fascism in history and the anatomy of constitutional crises. Given the man currently occupying the White House, these topics are on the minds of millions — maybe hundreds of millions. I’ve poured hours into research, outlines, comparisons, writing and rewriting. I’m proud of that work. The logic is sound, the examples clear, the purpose timely.
And yet.
Last week, I changed my Facebook profile picture. I chose a photo of my two dogs, both of whom passed last year. It was a small act of remembrance, nothing more.
Over the next few days, I watched the metrics on my posts. One item was getting five times the usual number of views. I thought, Finally — something resonated. I scrolled to see which essay had struck a chord.
It wasn’t an essay.
It was the profile picture.
Dogs, not fascism, were ruling the day.
That sent my brain into overdrive. I started noticing a pattern among American essayists: no matter how serious their work, they all wrote about pets. Ursula Le Guin wrote about cats. E.B. White wrote about cats, dogs, pigs, geese, even spiders. Over the years, I’ve created commentary on my cats, chickens, rabbits, goats, ducks, and turkeys — (my apologies to the quail and guineafowl for their omission.)
Why do we do this? Why do readers respond so strongly to animals?
As I thought about it, I remembered the Scout Oath from my childhood: trustworthy, loyal, courteous, kind… (I’ll stop before “obedient.” That one was always a challenge for me.) Looking at those words now, I realize the animals I’ve lived with embody those traits more naturally than I ever have. Chaco, my lab/border collie mix, was the very definition of loyalty. For thirteen years he was at my side, steady, present, and unconditionally loving. Our cats, independent to a fault, always know when comfort is needed and offer it without hesitation.
Animals carve out space in our hearts because they are transparent in ways we struggle to be. They are comfortable in their own skin. They don’t posture. They don’t manipulate. They don’t pretend.
And here’s the insight that finally clicked for me:
Animals draw us in because they embody the virtues we fear we’re losing in our culture — honesty, loyalty, presence — while fascism thrives on the opposite: fear, deception, and performative strength.
We may not consciously think of it this way, but on some level we know:
A dog’s loyalty is the antidote to a world full of bad faith.
A cat’s quiet presence is a counterweight to the noise of public life.
Their simplicity is a refuge from our complexity.
So what does this have to do with fascism?
Honestly, nothing — and everything.
I didn’t put the word in the title to trick you. It’s simply the reality of our moment: the word “fascism” hovers over our national life like a storm cloud. It forces its way into our thoughts whether we invite it or not.
But I can tell you this: you will not find fascist traits in the loyal pet at your side. If anything, your dog or cat is a small act of resistance — a reminder of the parts of ourselves we refuse to surrender.
And maybe that’s reason enough for people to open articles about dogs and cats five times more often than articles about politics.
Thank you for taking the time to meander with me this morning. - Gary