I wonder what it’s like to be a dog in Miami.
In the evenings, I often walk along Biscayne Bay, where the park sits between tall condos and the water, and it feels as if half the city’s dogs have been brought there to greet the sunset. The air is warm but not heavy, upper seventies and soft, the kind of weather people wait all day for. The airplanes drone overhead, palms move a little in the breeze, and the rocks along the bay hold the last heat of the afternoon.
Beside me on the path, a black dog zigzags from left to right, nose down as if every blade of grass has a story. His harness is slipping off to the side, but he doesn’t care. It is his world, and we’re just in it. A few steps later, a tiny wiener dog trundles by, low to the ground, determined, cheerful, life’s struggles somehow included in the fun. Not far off, a fluffy white fur ball pauses at the edge of the grass, watching bigger dogs chase Frisbees and balls in the field.
There’s so much going on at once. Dogs running, owners talking, someone stretching before a jog, someone else leaning down to tie a shoe. And then there’s Jojo, a black-and-white dog who looks like a little collie. He comes right up to the bench and rests his head on my leg, friendly and unhurried, as if to say, “You’re here now. That’s enough.” His dad looks like he’s been working out, but Jojo only cares about that moment of contact.
A Labrador is playing fetch nearby, yellow coat glowing in the low light. His dad kicks the ball, and the dog freezes for a heartbeat, eyes locked, then explodes after it. He brings it back, drops it, waits again. You can almost feel how long he’s waited for this, all day perhaps. He looks tired and perfectly content.
Not far off, four big dogs run full speed in one direction, then stop on a dime and tear back the other way. A little teddy bear dog leaps straight up, impossibly high, while another lies nearby squeaking a toy. It feels like a festival without any announcements, just shared joy.
And then, Rambo. A small dog in a vest ventures down over the rocks to the water. He steps in, splish-splash, then scrambles back up with muddy paws, delighted with himself. His name is perfect, a little warrior conquering the shoreline one cautious splash at a time.
What surprises me is how little judgment I feel here. There are bodies of every shape, people jogging, walking, pushing strollers, some glamorous, some tired from work, some clearly pushing themselves to move. And everyone seems to be simply existing alongside one another.
The dogs don’t seem to notice status at all. They trot beside whoever holds the leash, or they dart ahead, or they stop to relieve themselves at the most inconvenient moments, calm and unapologetic. Some have shaved coats, some have jeweled collars, some wear heavy neck pillows that make them look like they’re about to tip forward. Some are dressed macho, some fancy. A muscular man walks a teacup dog so small it looks like a thought. A toy dog struggles to keep up with a stroller, legs moving twice as fast as the human’s pace suggests.
And then there are the old souls, dogs who walk slowly with a kind of dignity that makes you lower your voice without realizing it. They aren’t necessarily old. They simply carry themselves like distinguished gentlemen or gentle ladies, perfectly content to enjoy a stroll without having to make an event of it.
Toward the end of the walk, the park opens wide to my left and the bay shines beyond it. To my right, a street carries Ferraris, Lamborghinis, and Bugattis past the high-rises, glossy and loud even when they’re quiet. Beautiful people drift in and out of view. For a moment, it feels like two different versions of Miami are running side by side: the one of wealth and speed, and the one of paws, tennis balls, and muddy water.
The dogs don’t seem to register the cars at all. They register grass underfoot, the smell of another dog, the sound of their name, the feel of water on their paws. They register being out, now, with their person.
What stays with me most is the atmosphere they’ve created. For all its glamour, noise, and ambition, Miami gives them a place where the evening belongs to everyone. The gentlemanly old souls, the energetic youngsters, the fashionable little creatures, and the great big dogs running as though they own the field. And their people, too.
For an hour or so, nobody needs to be particularly important. They only need to be present.
I started the walk wondering what it might be like to be a dog in Miami. By the time I head home, I find myself thinking that maybe they have the right idea all along. A beautiful evening, a little companionship, and something to look forward to tomorrow.
That’s a dog’s life. And in Miami, it’s a pretty good one.
