If there’s one animal that defines Venice, it’s pigeons. No, cats. Seagulls? Some might even say rats. But no one ever says dogs.

When it comes up that I moved my dog from the great pet-friendly mecca of DFW to the city on water, people ask if it’s really such a great place for dogs. Considering the lack of green spaces, they say, and how small everything is compared to the great USA, they imply.

What I always start with in conversations like these is the fact that there are no cars in Venice. It’s a much safer place to let your dog roam free. I would never—and could never—let Cora off-leash in front of my very trafficked front lawn in Texas, unless I wanted to be calling animal control to pick up her remains from the road. Any number of pickups or high schoolers in Jeep Wranglers blasting Frank Ocean could smush her in a second. No shade to Frank Ocean. Minimal shade to Wranglers. Plus, where’s the fun in just letting your dog in the backyard? Boring. 

But it’s more than just no cars. What really stands out here is the dog-friendly culture.

Most mornings in Venice start the same. Cora’s food alarm rings (Maneater, by Hall & Oats) , I give her a bowl of kibble, we don our outdoor clothes, and descend the stairs. If it’s sunny, I’ll cross the bridge into Campo Santa Margherita and take a table at Café Rosso. After only a couple of visits, the baristas started recognizing Cora, which meant I suddenly got the red-carpet-resident treatment. I was no longer made to pay upon receiving breakfast, like a tourist. Instead, I’m brought a croissant, cappuccino, and a bowl of water for le pup, then told my ticket number for when I’m ready to leave. We sit basking in the sun as I read, Cora at my feet, fending off the pigeons intent on getting to the crumbs. I’m usually interrupted a couple of times by nice older ladies saying che bella and reaching down to pat Cora’s head, or other pups leading their owners in our direction for a friendly sniff.

Next stop: the grocery store. The little one across from the ice cream parlor. I tie her out front, gently, and when I return a few minutes later, she’s surrounded by admirers. Free Venetian babysitting.

By lunch, we’ve already logged a few miles, but I usually like to go out once more (especially as it gets chillier) to soak in the last bit of sun. This might involve another coffee, a bookstore, or a spritz. Usually a spritz. Zattere has the best afternoon light in autumn, winter, and spring, so I make the fifteen-minute trek to the kiosk on the promenade. When we arrive, Cora flops at my feet like she owns the waterfront. I order a Select and farewell the sun.

After a couple of hours of work and then dinner, we head out again for our last walk of the day. The streets feel narrower, the sea saltier at night. In the summer and spring, when the crowds of students and tourists thicken around the bars, Cora cuts through people like a hot knife through butter—my personal people-mover, unapologetically barreling forward. If I were alone, I’d be stuck saying permesso, scusi, permesso ad nauseam.

In a city of only 50,000 residents but 30 million tourists annually, there are more temporary faces than not. It creates a peculiar situation: you live on a tiny island yet are surrounded by strangers all day. It can be hard to build community. But with a dog, you soon start to recognize the dozen or so other pups who live on the island. You wave to their owners each morning if your walks overlap. You exchange pleasantries, and then numbers to organize play dates. I think this is just the effect of city life, not something unique to Venice, but it’s the only place I’ve experienced this level of we-look-out-for-each-other-because-we-have-dogs energy.

On the edge of Irving and Coppell, where I lived for some time before returning to Venice, I picked what I thought was a very dog-friendly residence. There were play areas, wide sidewalks, a huge trail with a pond at its center. The cafés on the water had little bowls set out. There were plenty of doggie-bag stations. I saw plenty of dogs. But for all the time I lived there, you want to know something sad? I never made friends with a single dog owner. Want to know what happened instead? People legitimately crossed the street so our dogs wouldn’t interact. So nothing out of the ordinary would happen. So they could stick to their morning schedule. They didn’t even bother to ask, “Is she friendly?” or “Does she like other dogs?” It was all avoidance. It was all sad.

It isn’t like that everywhere, I know. But it did reinforce my belief that Venice is a wonderful place to have a dog. Some of the best people I know here, I met, or at least became close with, because of Cora. She unlocked a different kind of city map for me, one that makes each street and campo feel entirely different for dog owners than for anyone else. It’s like they say about birding: once you start watching, you see the world differently. You can never look at the sky or a tree the same way again. Similarly, as a dog owner in this city, I’ll never see Venice the same way again.