The Daily
The Sunday Read: ‘My Goldendoodle Spent a Week at Some Luxury Dog ‘Hotels.’ I Tagged Along.’
Sat, 28 Dec 2024
By the time Sam Apple pulled up with his goldendoodle, Steve, to their resting place, he was tired from the long drive and already second-guessing his plan. He felt a little better when they stepped inside the Dogwood Acres Pet Retreat. The lobby, with its elegant tiled entrance, might have passed for the lobby of any small countryside hotel, at least one that strongly favored dog-themed decor. But this illusion was broken when the receptionist reviewed their reservation — which, in addition to their luxury suite, included cuddle time, group play, a nature walk and a “belly rub tuck-in.”Venues like this one, on Kent Island in Maryland’s Chesapeake Bay, didn’t exist when Apple was growing up in the 1980s. If you needed a place to board your dog back then, you went to a kennel, where your dog spent virtually the entire day in a small — and probably not very clean — cage. There were no tuck-ins, no bedtime stories, no dog-bone-shaped swimming pools. There was certainly nothing like today’s most upscale canine resorts, where the dogs sleep on queen-size beds and the spa offerings include mud baths and blueberry facials; one pet-hotel franchise on the West Coast will even pick up your dog in a Lamborghini. Apple knew Dogwood Acres wouldn’t be quite as luxurious as that, but the accommodations still sounded pretty nice. So he decided to check his dog in, and to tag along for the journey. Unlock full access to New York Times podcasts and explore everything from politics to pop culture. Subscribe today at nytimes.com/podcasts or on Apple Podcasts and Spotify.
Chapter 1: What motivated the exploration of luxury dog hotels?
Hey, I'm Sam Apple. I'm a contributor to the New York Times Magazine and the owner of a very good golden doodle named Steve who loves neck massages and hard-boiled eggs. I've had this feeling for a while now that the dogs are taking over. All these activities where you never see dogs in the past, now you're seeing people bring them everywhere they go. Restaurants have dog tasting menus.
There are ice cream parlors specifically for dogs. We dress them up in Halloween costumes, which a decade ago might have been a joke. Now it's like, of course you buy your dog a Halloween costume. Who wouldn't do that? Recently, I became obsessed with this concept of luxury dog hotels.
Not pet-friendly accommodations for people, but upscale dog kennels, essentially, that are nicer than some human hotels. There are these high-end resorts with names like Chateau Pucci and Barkingham Pet Hotel, where your dog can luxuriate while you're off on vacation. Hotel staff will take your dog on nature walks, read them bedtime stories, and perform belly rub tuck-ins.
The amenities some of these places offer are pretty astounding. Queen-size beds, big flat-screen TVs, swimming pools, and they're often filled with chic decor. The most lavish dog hotels include spas where your dog can get a blueberry facial, a mud bath, or a massage.
According to one franchise's website, relaxing down-tempo slash chill music emanates throughout the entire hotel, creating a peaceful vibe for the canine guests. The same franchise will pick your dog up in a Lamborghini or other sports car of your choice. Why is it so different from the way we grew up?
I decided to go on a road trip with Steve so that we could try out some of these dog hotels ourselves. I packed the car with Steve's stuffed mallard, one of his favorite toys, a big bag of hard-boiled eggs, and a sleeping bag. The result is this week's Sunday read, read by Eric Jason Martin. Our audio producer for this episode is Adrian Hurst.
The original music you'll hear was written and performed by Aaron Esposito.
By the time my golden doodle, Steve, and I pulled up to our resting place, I was tired from the long drive and already second-guessing my plan. I felt a little better when we stepped inside the Dogwood Acres Pet Retreat. The lobby, with its elegant tiled entrance, might have passed for the lobby of any small countryside hotel, at least one that strongly favored dog-themed decor.
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Chapter 2: How have dog hotels evolved from traditional kennels?
But this illusion was broken when the receptionist reviewed our reservation, which, in addition to our luxury suite, included cuddle time, group play, a nature walk, and a belly rub tuck-in. Venues like this one, located on Kent Island in Maryland's Chesapeake Bay, didn't exist when I was growing up in the 1980s.
If you needed a place to board your dog back then, you went to a kennel, where your dog spent virtually the entire day in a small, and probably not very clean, cage. There were no tuck-ins, no bedtime stories, no dog-bone-shaped swimming pools.
There were certainly nothing like today's most upscale canine resorts, where the dogs sleep on queen-size beds and the spa offerings include mud baths and blueberry facials. One pet hotel franchise on the West Coast will even pick up your dog in a Lamborghini. I knew Dogwood Acres wouldn't be quite as luxurious as that, but the accommodations still sounded pretty nice.
The website mentioned distinctive decor, cable television, and a large picture window overlooking an extra large private outdoor patio. My plan was to stay with Steve at a string of dog hotels. Yes, four dogs only, in the mid-Atlantic region, not too far from where I live. Putting the plan into action had required making a series of deeply embarrassing phone calls.
Chapter 3: What amenities do luxury dog hotels offer?
My requests were sometimes met with awkward silences, which would be followed by questions along the lines of, you sure you want to do that? I tried to explain that staying at dog hotels would take me to the heart of some questions that I'd been thinking about a lot in recent months. How did humans start catering to the whims of canines rather than the other way around?
And what if, somewhere along the way, we all became a little too obsessed with our dogs? After Steve was weighed and examined for fleas and ticks, we were escorted to our room. Everyone at Dogwood Acres was exceptionally warm and welcoming, which did nothing to lessen my fear as I walked by them, clutching my sleeping bag and rolling suitcase, that they all thought I was a total schmuck.
I wanted to take each employee aside and explain that it wasn't what it seemed, that I was actually on a very serious quest to understand something important about the American condition in the 21st century.
But there was nothing to be done, because of course the only thing schmuckier than staying at a facility for dogs is trying to justify it as a quest to understand something important about the American condition in the 21st century. I tried to remain positive as Steve and I made our way into the recesses of Dogwood Acres.
Chapter 4: What was the experience like at Dogwood Acres Pet Retreat?
Never mind if the hallway of luxury suites had less the feel of the Ritz-Carlton than of, say, a Soviet-era Bulgarian office building. So what if the room directly across from our suite was occupied by a large black dog named Bella, who was barking ferociously and lunging at the window facing our room?
What difference did it make that someone had used a black marker to add some all-caps notes to the printed chart taped to Bella's door? Do not reach for head. Caution with sudden movements. Did it really matter that our room was significantly smaller than I anticipated, 6.5 feet by 6.5 feet, or that the extra-large private outdoor patio was surrounded by steel caging? It could have been worse."
I had my sleeping bag. There was a TV and an elegant stainless steel pail of water, should Steve or I get thirsty. It was all, of course, entirely my own fault. Audrey Reichardt, the owner, had graciously offered to set up a cot and air mattress for me, but I insisted I wanted only what the dogs get. "'This is it,' Reichardt said, extending her hand to the room. "'But you're not a dog.'
A little while later, a young woman came by to give Steve his bedtime belly rub tuck-in. Watching by the open door, I couldn't help thinking that if only humans were good and innocent like dogs, instead of being so weird and gross and sex-obsessed, we might have a wider range of wholesome services like this one available at our hotels.
Then I remembered that Steve might not be so good and pure around his own kind either, had I not had his testicles surgically removed. At 8 p.m., it was lights out. Steve got onto his dog cot with the stuffed mallard toy I'd packed.
A few minutes later, I heard some deep breathing and saw that Steve was out cold, which made the whole experience lonelier, like when a friend would fall asleep first at a sleepover. At some point, I remembered that I hadn't eaten all day.
I took a few hard-boiled eggs out of my bag and looked through the window to the patio-slash-steel cage and felt it really should have been impossible, even schmuckier than before. It's not just the hotels. There are now dog bakeries and ice cream parlors and social clubs. One dog-only San Francisco cafe serves canines a $75 tasting menu.
More and more restaurants, for people, also now offer dog menus. A lot of these things probably started as jokes, but such gestures have a way of outliving their origins. At some point, throwing birthday parties for our dogs and buying them Valentine's Day gifts went from being something we did to be funny to something we just did.
Total spending on pets in the United States, and dogs are by far the most popular pet, rose more than 50% between 2018 and 2022, when it reached $137 billion, according to a Pet Products Trade Association report. Americans now spend more than half a billion dollars each year on pet Halloween costumes alone, per the National Retail Federation.
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Chapter 5: How does spending on pets reflect societal changes?
At some dog hotels, suites have cameras and emails from concerned owners arrive throughout the night. San Francisco's pet camp once received a frantic call from a woman who wanted to know why her dog had come home with an erection. The hoteliers denied responsibility for the erection.
A dog hotel in Pennsylvania once had to make time for a pet parent who insisted on calling in each day to play the kazoo to her dog. Pet parents is a term of modern creation, although pet has a longer history. The word first came into use in the early 1500s, and from the beginning, it could refer not only to animals, but also to people, particularly spoiled children.
James Serple, an emeritus professor of animal welfare at the University of Pennsylvania, told me that the origin of humans keeping pets can probably be traced to the human tendency to respond to young animals in the same way we respond to small children. It's an extension of our parenting instincts.
We have extended our parenting instincts so far, it seems, that the distinction between pets and children has evaporated altogether. And pet industry experts say the relentless humanizing of our dogs has been accelerated by millennials and Gen Z, who now make up the largest share of dog owners in the country, and who often have a first dog before a first child.
Americans in their 20s and 30s nowadays have a lot of spare parental love in their hearts, and their dogs are lapping it up. I slept well at Holiday Barn. The next morning, before leaving, I helped Steve into a dog life jacket so he could splash around in the bone-shaped pool. I put on some rubber boots and clomped around after him while two chocolate labs took turns swimming laps.
The previous few days were overcast, but the sun was out now. And I was overcome with an, I could really get used to this, feeling, before I realized I was now fantasizing about extending my stay at a dog resort. I knew before I arrived that the old town pet resort in Dulles, Virginia, where Steve and I would be spending the last night of our trip, would be the fanciest of our destinations.
But I was wowed just the same. The lobby had a sculpture of a pointer and a glass wall with a view of the heated indoor pool. It was nicer than the lobby of most human hotels I'd stayed in. When I later interviewed Ron Halligan, president and chief executive of Old Town Pet Resorts, he told me his job came with some special challenges. It's like running an acute care retirement facility.
They all have to be taken to the bathroom. We have a med cart. Half of them are on meds. After we checked in, a friendly young man named Jonathan Neal led Steve through an agility session, during which Steve jumped through hoops and walked along ramps and elevated planks.
Neal then changed into a wetsuit to oversee Steve's swimming session, which involved leading a very unamused Steve back and forth across the 20-foot-long pool. Though I'd arranged to stay at a luxury suite at Old Town, there was a concern that the dogs there might smell me, and that this could be upsetting to them.
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