Pandemic Pup-Now in Gibraltar

Pandemic Pup: Through the Nose of Skyelark MacDoglet

They say humans domesticated us. That they made us in their image. But I know better.

I chose them.

And I chose her—my human, Sarah Kennedy. The one with the soft voice and the firm hand. The one who smells of lavender, oat biscuits, and the faintest trace of puppyhood dreams. They say she bred Scotties in South Africa—Dougle, Maggie May, Flora Dora, and Jenny. Legends, all of them. And me? I’m Skyelark MacDoglet. The heir to their legacy. A pandemic pup, born in Charleston, South Carolina, just as the world stood still.

I wasn’t born to sit in crates. No. I flew to Holland in the cabin, like the dignitary I am. I’ve taken ferries to the UK, rolled over the South Downs of Sussex, herded sheep on Fair Isle, and now I’m strutting the sun-bleached stone of Gibraltar. I am a MacDoglet of the world.

The Early Months: Smell Before Sight

From the start, my world wasn’t made of shapes and colors—it was made of smells. Humans walk into a room and see furniture, windows, and light. I smell the history: who sat where, which shoes stepped in grass, and who’s eaten chicken. The olfactory world is my canvas. While humans check their phones, I read the sidewalk. Every tree is a bulletin board. Every fire hydrant, a memoir.

Sarah let me sniff. That’s love, you know. Letting your pup sniff. That’s how I know she’s mine.

The Secret Language of Dogs

Let me decode some things for you.

Tail wagging? Not always happiness. It’s communication. It’s scent dispersal. A loose, high wag? Excitement. A stiff, low flick? Back off, mate.

My kisses? They come from ancient instinct. Sure, it’s affection—but don’t be surprised if I’m also hoping for a snack. That’s heritage, not rudeness.

Eye contact? Wolves would take it as a threat. But I’m no wolf. I look into your eyes and feel something chemical—oxytocin, they call it. That mutual rush of recognition and safety. When Sarah looks at me like that, I feel as cherished as a newborn.

Guilty Looks and Clever Lies

People often think we “look guilty.” That furrowed brow, that sad glance after we’ve chewed the furniture? That’s not guilt. It’s survival. It’s a look that gets us adopted, gets us forgiven, gets us loved. We are masters of empathy, attuned to the smallest shifts in human behavior—whether you're reaching for the leash or the vacuum cleaner.

And yes, I remember. More than you'd guess. Smells are memory. Scent is how I know Sarah, even in a new place. Even after months apart, I’d know her by the molecules on her coat.

The Theory of Mind—and Mischief

They say we don’t have a “theory of mind.” That we don’t understand other perspectives. But have you ever seen me play?

Before I pounce, I bow. I wait for the other dog to look. I ask, “Are you in?” That’s not instinct. That’s intent. That’s understanding. I don’t just chase tails—I start dialogues.

Watching the Watchers

I live among humans. I’ve learned their rituals. The sigh before a walk. The way Sarah slides into her sandals. The scent of departure. I anticipate, interpret, and respond. I’m an anthropologist with paws.

When I lived on Fair Isle, I knew the rhythms of tide and sheep. Now in Gibraltar, I’ve learned the difference between cruise ship tourists and the cats of Catalan Bay. I remember it all.

I am Skyelark MacDoglet—descended from wolves, attuned to humans, alive in scent and story.

And every day, I teach Sarah something she’s forgotten:

That the world is not only to be seen.
It’s to be sniffed.
To be loved.
To be known.

— Skyelark MacDoglet