Letters from...
Milan: a dog changes everything. A letter from a gold prospector
In Milan, a city of glittering shop windows and neglected greetings, all it takes is a dog to rediscover a little human warmth. Between ambushes on the lead and memories of lost companions, Winston unearths a sense of camaraderie that seemed to have vanished
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‘Milan has its heart on its sleeve,’ as they used to say. I have only a vague memory of that. These days in Milan, it is rare even to see someone bend down to look at a baby in a pram. People are no longer moved by such things. Perhaps we do not envy those who will be born in 2026.
Yet there is something that rekindles a thread of humanity in this city for the wealthy – cheerful and tacky in the shop windows of the Quadrilatero, yet desolate elsewhere.
In Milan, owning a dog appears essential for navigating social interactions. Without a canine companion, pedestrians remain largely invisible to one another. However, a dog transforms the dynamic: encounters become frequent, as owners pause while their pets sniff and assess each other, and brief exchanges follow: “Male? Female? How old is he/she?”. The encounter typically concludes with a cordial “Have a good evening”—a rare commodity in this sterile city.
If you have a dog, other dog owners will recognise you. We smile at one another. For eighteen years I had a mongrel who looked like a little wolf. “Mum, a wolf!”, the little children would exclaim, and I’d reassure them: “Yes, but he’s a good wolf.” Now I have a puppy of unknown origin, adopted from a shelter, a sort of dachshund-like hound. Winston has a habit, as soon as he spots another dog, of crouching low in a stalking stance: nose outstretched, ready to pounce. He does this with everyone – unfortunately, even with Rottweilers. But by now everyone in the neighbourhood knows the puppy who lies in wait: ‘Hello Winston,’ they say, greeting him.
I engage in brief conversations with several strangers. An elderly man pauses to look at my puppy. “He looks just like the one I used to have,” he says. He then recounts his bond with the much-loved companion he has lost. (You love dogs forever, because they never let you down).
Within this awareness, a quiet brotherhood is blossoming amongst Milan’s discreet dog lovers. They know that, deep down, there is still humanity in Milan. It’s just that, to unearth it – like hidden gold – you need a dog.
The hearts of dogs compensate for the coldness of a metropolis that has been transformed over the past thirty years. Even in the shops on Montenapo, the beautiful, haughty shop assistants give in. And from their dizzying twelve-inch heels, they bend down tenderly to stroke a little mongrel.