The hippie generation gave us plenty of unforgettable characters.
Flower children.
Free spirits.
Musicians.
Protesters.
People who crossed the country in Volkswagen buses with eleven dollars, three blankets and absolutely no idea where they were sleeping that night.
But history has largely ignored another important member of the counterculture.
The dogs.
And we’re not talking about dogs who simply happened to live with hippies.
We’re talking about the dogs who embraced the whole thing.
The long hair.
The round glasses.
The questionable fashion choices.
The music.
The protests.
The road trips.
The firm belief that most of life’s problems could probably be solved with peace, love and considerably more snacks.
So put on a record, find your old peace medallion and climb into the Volkswagen.
We’re going back to the late ’60s and early ’70s.
The dogs are driving.
Woodstock
Three days of peace, music and approximately four hundred thousand people discovering that nobody had packed enough dry socks.
And somewhere in the middle of it all is the coolest dog at Woodstock.
He’s muddy.
His hair is a disaster.
A battered headband disappeared somewhere above his eyebrows several hours ago.
There are flowers around his neck, people dancing behind him and enough mud under his paws to suggest he’s been here since Friday.
He isn’t somebody’s pet sitting politely on a blanket.
He’s part of the festival.
People have shared sandwiches with him.
Someone gave him a flower.
He may have wandered into three different camps and been temporarily adopted by all of them.
Nobody knows exactly who he arrived with.
Including him.
The music continues somewhere in the distance.
The dog looks completely at home.
Woodstock is going extremely well.
The VW Bus
There was transportation.
And then there was the Volkswagen bus.
Painted flowers.
Peace signs.
Curtains in the windows.
Stickers covering the bumper.
Camping equipment strapped to the roof with a level of optimism that would concern a modern safety inspector.
And behind the wheel?
A dog.
Round tinted glasses.
Worn headband.
Peace medallion hanging against his chest.
One paw confidently resting on the steering wheel.
His human passengers are somewhere in the back surrounded by blankets, maps, backpacks and a guitar.
They think they’re going to California.
The dog hasn’t committed to anything.
There is an open highway ahead, half a tank of gas and absolutely no reservation waiting at the other end.
For once, nobody has to ask:
Who’s driving?
The Rock Star
Every band needed someone with incredible hair.
Fortunately, the Afghan Hound had arrived.
It’s 1971 in Laurel Canyon.
Sunlight pours through enormous windows into a house filled with guitars, records, plants and people who haven’t seen a conventional haircut in several years.
And in the middle of it all sits the dog.
Long flowing hair.
Round tinted glasses.
Silk scarf.
The relaxed confidence of someone whose second album went platinum before lunch.
A guitar rests nearby.
Records cover the floor.
Several musicians are waiting for him to decide whether the track needs another take.
It does.
Obviously.
Nobody knows exactly what instrument he plays.
That isn’t important.
He’s the frontman.
Make Treats Not War
The crowd stretches down the street.
Hand-painted signs rise above hundreds of marchers.
Peace signs.
Flowers.
Denim.
Army-surplus jackets.
And leading the entire thing is a German Shepherd who looks like he’s spent considerable time thinking about foreign policy.
Around his neck hangs a handmade sign:
MAKE TREATS NOT WAR
He marches with complete seriousness.
The humans follow behind.
This isn’t some dog who accidentally wandered into a demonstration.
He has a position.
He has demands.
And frankly, his platform is difficult to argue with.
Less fighting.
More understanding.
Universal access to biscuits.
Peace is complicated.
Treats are not.
The Commune
The commune was built around a simple idea.
Everyone contributes.
Everyone shares.
Nobody owns more than they need.
The dogs were extremely enthusiastic about the sharing part.
Inside an old farmhouse, sunlight falls across a huge wooden table surrounded by mismatched chairs.
There are handmade mugs, fresh bread, vegetables from the garden and several humans discussing how today’s chores should be divided.
Meanwhile, the dogs appear to have taken over operations.
One is sitting at the head of the table.
Another is inspecting breakfast.
A third has positioned himself strategically near the bread.
Nobody remembers electing a leader.
Yet somehow there clearly is one.
The humans may believe they’re experimenting with communal living.
The dogs have already established a government.
Its primary economic policy involves bacon redistribution.
The Record Store
Before playlists and algorithms decided what you should listen to, there was the record store.
Rows of vinyl.
Hand-painted posters.
Listening booths.
Incense.
And one employee who silently judged everything you bought.
At this particular shop, that employee is a Dachshund.
He sits behind the counter wearing tiny round glasses, surrounded by stacks of records.
Headphones rest around his neck.
The walls are exploding with psychedelic artwork.
Customers flip through albums while something loud and complicated plays through the speakers.
The Dachshund has heard everything.
Rock.
Folk.
Blues.
Psychedelia.
Several extremely ambitious concept albums.
He has opinions.
Ask him what’s good.
Just don’t request anything too commercial.
He’ll lose respect for you.
The Flower Child
Some dogs needed beads, scarves and round glasses to embrace the hippie movement.
The Old English Sheepdog simply needed to wake up.
The hair was already perfect.
Standing in a meadow filled with wildflowers, he looks like the counterculture finally discovered its mascot.
Flowers are woven loosely through his enormous coat.
A few beads disappear somewhere beneath all that hair.
There may be a headband.
It’s difficult to tell where the dog ends and the accessories begin.
Butterflies move through the grass.
The afternoon sun is warm.
And for once, absolutely nobody is in a hurry.
He doesn’t need a protest sign.
He doesn’t need a Volkswagen.
He doesn’t even need shoes.
He was born a flower child.
The House Party
Every great party eventually develops a centre of gravity.
At this one, it’s the dog.
The living room is packed.
People are sitting on floor cushions.
Records are stacked beside the turntable.
Someone has a guitar.
Someone else has been explaining the meaning of life for approximately forty-five minutes.
And beside the stereo sits the dog.
Tinted glasses.
Bandana.
Perfectly relaxed.
One paw suspiciously close to the record collection.
This is clearly his party.
People keep arriving.
He approves some of them.
Others receive a look.
Someone attempts to change the record.
The dog does not approve.
The record stays.
By two in the morning, half the room is dancing, somebody is asleep on the sofa and nobody has seen Steve for several hours.
The dog?
Still controlling the music.
Heading West
Nobody really knows where he’s going.
Including the dog.
He’s standing beside a two-lane highway with a little backpack, rolled blanket and a battered cardboard sign.
WEST
That’s it.
No phone.
No GPS.
No itinerary.
Just a road disappearing toward the mountains and the absolute confidence that eventually somebody will stop.
Round sunglasses sit on his nose.
A peace medallion hangs from his neck.
His belongings suggest he has packed everything required for an extended journey.
Which apparently consists of a blanket and snacks.
An old station wagon approaches in the distance.
Maybe it stops.
Maybe it doesn’t.
The dog isn’t worried.
There will always be another ride.
He’s got nowhere to be until Tuesday.
And he isn’t entirely sure what day it is.
The Old Hippie
The Volkswagen has considerably more rust now.
So does its owner.
More than fifty years have passed since the festivals, protests and long summers on the road.
But parked outside a little cabin is the same battered VW.
The flowers painted along the doors have faded.
Old stickers cling stubbornly to the windows.
A guitar case sits nearby.
And beside the van is an elderly dog.
Grey muzzle.
Long, slightly unruly hair.
Tiny round glasses.
A battered peace medallion that looks like it has travelled a very long way.
He sits in the afternoon sun with the calm expression of someone who has absolutely nothing left to prove.
This dog has been places.
He has seen things.
There were festivals.
There were communes.
There were road trips that began with absolutely no destination.
There were parties nobody remembers particularly well.
And there was a period between approximately 1971 and 1974 that he is simply not prepared to discuss.
Fair enough.
Because eventually the music gets quieter.
The road trips get shorter.
The Volkswagen spends more time parked.
But some things apparently stick with you.
Peace is still a pretty good idea.
Love matters.
Going outside fixes more problems than people realize.
And sharing what you have isn’t a bad way to live.
The hippie generation spent years searching for a better way.
The dogs may have understood it all along.
Eat when you’re hungry.
Sleep when you’re tired.
Go where the road takes you.
Stay close to the people you love.
And whenever possible,
make treats, not war.
