If dogs could write their own 10 commandments, here’s what they’d be

My dog is basically a tiny dictator with a wagging tail.

He has rules. So many rules. Unspoken laws that govern our household, enforced through strategic whining, guilt-inducing stares, and the occasional dramatic sigh when I fail to meet his standards.

And the thing is, I follow them. We all do. Every dog owner does, whether we admit it or not.

So I started thinking: what if dogs could actually write down their commandments? What would they be? What are the sacred rules we're all unknowingly breaking every single day?

I'm pretty sure if Splash, my three-year-old mini-poodle, could hold a pen, this is exactly what he'd write:

1. Thou shalt pet me whenever I present my belly

This is the first and most important commandment.

When a dog rolls over and presents his belly to you, that is not a suggestion. That is a divine summons. You are being called to worship at the altar of the soft tummy, and you will respond immediately.

It doesn't matter if you're in the middle of something. Working? Irrelevant. Cooking? The food can wait. On an important phone call? Tell them you'll call back.

The belly has been presented. Your obligations are clear.

I learned this rule early. Splash will flop over in the middle of the hallway, all four paws in the air, and just wait. If I dare to step over him, the betrayal in his eyes is devastating. I've wounded him deeply by prioritizing literally anything over his belly rubs.

So now I stop. Every time. Because apparently my purpose in life is to serve as an on-demand belly rubber, and honestly, I'm okay with that.

2. Thou shalt never eat without offering me a "tiny piece"

Dogs have a very specific theology around food, and it goes like this: all food is community property until proven otherwise.

You sitting down with a snack? That snack is half theirs. You made yourself a sandwich? They've already calculated their portion. You're eating something they've never seen before? All the more reason they should try it.

The "tiny piece" is sacred ritual. It doesn't matter that they just ate their own meal. It doesn't matter that they don't even like what you're eating. What matters is the principle of the thing.

You're eating, they're not. This is a grave injustice that must be corrected.

Splash has perfected the art of the food stare. He sits at exactly the right distance, not quite begging, just observing. Waiting. His eyes follow every bite from plate to mouth.

The message is clear: "I'm not saying you have to share. I'm just saying I'm here. Watching. Waiting. Judging your choices."

3. Thou shalt respect the power of the walk

The walk is not just exercise. The walk is not just a bathroom break.

The walk is a spiritual experience, a journey of discovery, a sacred exploration of the world's most interesting smells.

And you will respect it.

By that, I mean no rushing. No dragging them away from that one spot they're sniffing intensely for five full minutes. Because that's how they explore the world, and you're there to make sure they get the proper amount of exploration. 

Every walk with Splash is an adventure in patience. We walk to investigate every single tree, bush, and mysterious spot on the sidewalk. We stop seventeen times in one block. We double back for no apparent reason. We stand completely still while he processes some scent I'll never understand.

And I've learned to just accept it. Because rushing the walk is a violation of sacred law. The walk happens at dog speed, on dog terms, following dog logic that I will never fully comprehend.

4. Thou shalt greet me like it's been years, even if it's been minutes

Here's what dogs don't understand about time: they don't care.

Every reunion, no matter how brief the separation, requires a full celebration. Jumping, spinning, tail wagging so hard their whole body moves, possibly some screaming because the joy is simply too much to contain.

And you are required to match their energy.

You can't just walk back in like it's no big deal. You can't be casual about this reunion. You were gone, you came back, this is literally the best thing that's ever happened, and you need to act accordingly.

I've gotten in the habit of greeting Splash with the same enthusiasm he greets me. I come home from work and announce my arrival like I'm returning from war. "I'm home! I missed you! Yes, I'm back!" Because anything less feels like I'm taking our reunion for granted.

The neighbors probably think I'm weird. But the dog is satisfied, and that's what matters.

5. Thou shalt not close doors without me

Closed doors are an abomination.

Dogs do not believe in privacy. They do not understand the concept of "I need a minute alone." They believe in togetherness, constant supervision, and never being separated by any physical barrier.

If you close a door between yourself and your dog, you have essentially communicated: "I am doing something incredibly important and fascinating in here, and you are not invited."

This is unacceptable.

Splash will scratch at closed doors. He'll whine. He'll stick his little black paw under the gap and wave it around like "I know you're in there. Let me in. This is cruel and unusual punishment."

I've given up on bathroom privacy entirely. The door stays cracked. He comes in, inspects the situation, usually decides it's boring, and leaves. But the point is he had the option. He was not excluded.

Because apparently excluding your dog from any room is basically abandonment, and we can't have that.

6. Thou shalt acknowledge every sound I bark at 

Dogs are convinced they're protecting us from threats we're too oblivious to notice.

A leaf falling? Threat. The mailman doing his job? Definite threat. A person walking past the house? Unknown entity, proceed with extreme caution. A sound that you, with your inferior human hearing, can't even detect? Major threat.

And when they alert you to these dangers, you are required to acknowledge their vigilance.

You can't just ignore the barking. You can't tell them it's nothing. You have to get up, look out the window, confirm that yes, you see the leaf/mailman/pedestrian/phantom noise, thank them for their service, and assure them that the situation is under control.

I've started doing this with Splash. He barks at something, I go look, I say "Good job, I see it, thank you for protecting us," and he relaxes. Because his job is to alert. My job is to acknowledge the alert and take appropriate action.

It's a system that makes no logical sense but works perfectly in dog logic.

7. Thou shalt let me sleep wherever I fall

Dogs do not believe in designated sleeping areas.

Sure, they have a bed. Maybe even multiple beds. But those are suggestions, not requirements.

Where dogs actually sleep is wherever they happen to be when the exhaustion hits. And once they've fallen asleep in their chosen location, you are not to disturb them.

You'll work around them. You'll step over them. You'll sit in an uncomfortable position for hours because they've fallen asleep on you and moving would be rude.

Splash has a beautiful dog bed that he uses approximately 20% of the time. The other 80% he's asleep on the couch, on my bed, in the doorway between rooms, or in whatever sunny spot he's found on the floor.

And I've accepted that wherever he falls asleep becomes sacred ground. I will adjust my entire life around his nap location. Because disturbing a sleeping dog is apparently against the rules.

8. Thou shalt forgive me for things I don't understand

Dogs don't always know why we're upset.

They chewed something they thought was a toy. They barked at something that seemed threatening. They had an accident because we didn't understand their subtle signal that they needed to go out.

And when we're frustrated or upset, they know something is wrong. But they don't always know what or why.

This commandment is the dog asking: please be patient with me. I'm trying my best with a dog brain in a human world. I don't understand all your rules. I don't always know what you want. But I'm trying.

Splash gets this look sometimes when he knows I'm upset about something he did. Ears back, tail down, eyes full of "I don't know what I did but I'm sorry." And it immediately makes me forgive him because he's right. He didn't understand.

He's a dog that's just doing his best with the information available to him. Getting mad at him for not understanding human logic is like getting mad at me for not understanding dog logic. We're both just trying to figure each other out.

9. Thou shalt speak to me like I understand every word

Dogs don't talk, right? But you can bet they want to be included in conversations.

They want you to explain what's happening. "We're going to the vet. Yes, I know you don't like it. But it's important. We'll be quick, I promise."

They want you to ask their opinion. "Should we go for a walk now or wait until later? What do you think?"

They want you to narrate your day. "I had a rough meeting today. My coworker said something annoying. You would have been proud of how I handled it."

They don't care that they don't understand most of the words. What matters is the tone, the inclusion, the acknowledgment that they're part of your life.

I talk to Splash constantly. I tell him about my day. I explain where I'm going and ask him questions. And he listens with this intense focus like he's actually following along.

He probably understands about ten words total. But those ten words are enough. And the sound of my voice, the fact that I'm talking to him, including him, treating him like a real participant in my life, that's what matters.

Bonus points if you do all these in a baby voice, because apparently, baby talk with dogs improves our bond with them even more, according to research. 

10. Thou shalt remember that I am doing my best 

This is the final and most important commandment.

In their own adorable ways, dogs are trying their best to please you. They're trying to understand your rules and make you happy.

But of course, they don't always get it right. They make mistakes and have accidents. They chew things, bark too much, jump on guests, and steal food off the counter!

But every single thing they do comes from a place of either trying to be good or acting on instincts they can't fully control.

And underneath all of it, through every mistake and every broken rule and every moment of frustration, is this simple truth: they love you.

Completely. Unconditionally. With their whole heart.

Splash looks at me sometimes with this pure, uncomplicated love that humans rarely experience. He doesn't care if I had a bad day or said something stupid or look terrible. He just loves me because I'm his person.

And this last commandment is him saying: I'm not perfect. I'll probably break your stuff and wake you up too early and be annoying sometimes. But I'm trying my best. And I love you more than I can ever show you.

The bottom line

If dogs could write commandments, they'd be less about obedience and more about connection.

Dogs have figured out something humans are still learning: life is better when you focus on love and presence instead of perfection and productivity.

So maybe we should follow their commandments. Not just for them, but for ourselves, too.

Pet the belly when it's presented. Share your food. Respect the walk. Celebrate reunions. Stay close. Acknowledge what matters to others. Let sleeping dogs lie. Be patient with things you don't understand. Talk to those you love. Remember everyone's doing their best.

Your dog wrote the commandments. You're just finally reading them.