The city where dogs open doors

Saturday, 22 November 2025

Mike “MOD” O'Donnell is a US-based commentator with extensive experience as a director and adviser to New Zealand businesses. He is a dog tragic and currently NZTE’s regional trade director for North America. This column represents his personal opinions.

OPINION: One thing I’ve learnt since moving to the United States three months ago: an english pointer is a better social lubricant than an MBA or a premium LinkedIn membership.

Bowie – my lanky, bird-obsessed pointer – has been the biggest factor in helping us settle into Santa Monica. And I say that as someone who arrived without kids to plug into schools, without a ready-made extended family barbecue network and with a dangerously limited knowledge of where to find a decent IPA (spoiler: you can’t).

But I did bring Bowie. And Bowie works the room.

Los Angeles has a reputation for being friendly… sort of. People smile. They chat. But the city moves quickly and everyone’s booked up with work, wellness, side hustles and general life. Unless you have a shared connection, you can remain the polite stranger who always buys the wrong bread at the supermarket.

Enter the dog.

On Wilshire at 7am, the dogs lead and the humans follow. People who might not look twice at you will happily stop, scratch Bowie behind the ears and start a real conversation. In Santa Monica, dogs are the icebreakers and we humans just hold the leash.

Bowie stands out here. He’s an english pointer — not a common sight in Southern California.

The comment I get most often is, “wow – that’s a serious piece of kit – what is it?”.

He was bred to run all day, work the cover and scent birds with military precision. At 14 months old, he’s basically a single-purpose machine. He’s not part doodle, he doesn’t wear a bandana, and crucially — he’s not called Waffles. He’s a Land Rover Defender in a city full of EV hatchbacks: capable of far more than required for school pick-ups.

People notice that. And before I know it, I’m getting restaurant tips, advice on Facebook groups and warnings about which cafés think you need pumpkin spice in coffee.

Another surprise: Los Angeles has actual wildlife hazards.

At night we hear coyotes calling from somewhere beyond the palm trees. We’ve even seen them skulking down quiet streets late at night — a reminder that this glossy city is still connected to the desert it grew out of.

So Bowie’s instinct to scent the breeze and scan the horizon isn’t just for show. In Wellington the biggest threat on a dog walk was a territorial pukeko. Here, one eye stays on Bowie and the other stays on the shadows.

A city built for dogs

What has genuinely impressed me is how much Santa Monica includes dogs in everyday life.

Most cafés and restaurants with outdoor seating welcome dogs. Most shops have water bowls outside. Vets outnumber post offices. There’s even a bakery for dogs (though Bowie remains unconvinced by vegan pumpkin-and-turmeric biscuits).

And then there’s the Day of the Dog Festival where Santa Monica really shows its hand. Once a year they shut down Main Street and 20,000 people and their dogs descend for what’s marketed as North America’s largest dog festival.

Events include a 30 metre dog pool party, a wave simulator for dog surfing, and rows of vendors selling all manner of canine cuisine, including vegan protein treats. And of course a wide range of clothing from booties to sunnies.

A city that closes its streets for a dog pool party is a city deeply committed to the dog-human partnership. Did I mention the dog pool has a life guard? No – none of this is made up.

And the result? People get out. They connect. A dog becomes a bridge between strangers.

Getting Bowie here wasn’t cheap.

Export permits, vet checks, flights, customs and a diabolical time running around the airport district. The amount of paperwork and cost involved just about brought this grown man to tears. Even my normally cool, calm and collected partner in crime was a bit creaky.

But every cent has been redeemed in fresh experiences and friendships. Bowie makes sure that we get out early, jogging new streets and boardwalks, meeting people you’d never otherwise bump into.

He’s easily the most expensive networking investment I’ve ever made but by far the best value.

The third space

Sociologists talk about “third spaces” — those in-between places outside home and work where community grows. In New Zealand that might be school gates, kids’ sport, the local café.

In Santa Monica, it’s Pallisades Park.

I’ve met retired firefighters, software developers, nurses, teachers — all thanks to dogs trying to steal each other’s tennis balls. Conversations start simply:

“What’s his name?”

“How old is she?”

“Wow he’s pretty fast, isn’t he?”

And suddenly you’ve swapped local knowledge, been invited to group walks, and learned which DMV branch has the shortest queue. Bowie has given me a fast-track to belonging — no secret handshake required.

Moving countries as an adult is hard. You leave behind decades of built-in relationships. There are no school runs. No Saturday sport. No natural community pipeline.

You have to build your own network from scratch.

Bowie has done the heavy lifting. He’s my Chief Connecting Officer. The provider of bottom-wiggling introductions. The pointer who helps me point myself in the right direction.

He’s turned Santa Monica from a place I sleep into a place I live.

So yes, it was expensive and occasionally chaotic to bring him here. But when I sit on the balcony at night, hearing coyotes somewhere out towards Venice, and Bowie curled up like a furry reminder of Central Otago and Southern Wairarapa — it’s obvious.

The smartest decision I made wasn’t moving to America.

It was bringing Bowie with me.