I have the cutest Google doc from earlier this year, titled “Poodle Puppy.” It features lists of puppy training classes, what shots they need, and a list of items to buy: chew toys, kibble, a collar. I didn’t need to list this out (this isn’t my first dog). But reading it now it’s clear that I was making a case to myself (and my partner) that this was a good idea: “See?? Getting a puppy is, in fact, no big deal, and also cheap, they need practically nothing.”
I was wrong, of course. For a while, like the earnest parent of a new baby, I leaned on free, DIY means to entertain the puppy. I scattered kibble in the grass for her to root out, the original snuffle mat. I repurposed empty tubes from finished rolls of paper towels, filling them with kibble and taping the ends shut as a puzzle — which resulted in a house covered in pieces of ripped up soggy cardboard and a newfound penchant for shredding mail. She got leftover cat toys, and I briefly debated making her food from scratch.
But inevitably capitalism reared its ugly head. Ads from Chewy, an online pet supply store, overpowered my Instagram feed, and I bit. Soon, boxes upon boxes started landing on my porch. It’s been three months since Birdie entered our home and the shipments haven’t ceased. (Editor’s note: Chewy did not pay us to write this.)
Standard poodles, it turns out, are smart as hell, even when they’re still clumsy, Muppet-like babies. A stuffed bunny toy was not enough to keep her focus beyond a few minutes, unless you were chucking it across the living room in an endless game of fetch. But search for “dog puzzle toys” on Chewy and you’ll get 14 pages of results. If you lean in, you’ll fall down a black hole: Late at night, long after everyone in the house was asleep, I found myself reading hundreds of reviews for toys called snoop, pupsicle, or toppl until my eyeballs burned from exhaustion. These toys promised hours of entertainment, mental stimulation, and a reduction in destructive behaviors, all of which sounded great, and necessary, and thank goodness I had my credit card saved on file. I felt unhinged, and sleep deprived, but happy.
I’m not alone here. Shopping — even just the act of browsing — releases dopamine in the brain. It feels good. Hitting the “purchase” button is like taking a bump of cocaine. Then there’s the anticipation of a package arriving, the tracking of its progress through our mail system as it inches closer to my address, the box arriving on the porch, the unpacking with the puppy at my feet, and then that glorious moment when I hand her whatever I’ve purchased and she loves it. Not only do I get pleasure from this process, but so does she. Bump, bump, bump.
My love for Chewy has now become akin to that of a dealer. It’s familiar, shows up to my house fast, and brings high-quality goods. But underneath this obsession is a squirmy sense of unease. I have never loved a corporation. What is this fierce loyalty? Why can’t I stop ordering from them, like a dog treat-obsessed hound?
Similar to cocaine, Chewy has questionable ethical origins. Google “is Chewy evil” and you’ll mostly get grumbling complaints from consumers who received their cat’s medication late. The company’s rise in popularity is staggering: Since it was founded in 2011, its earnings have grown from a humble $26 million to $12.6 billion last year. It makes my paltry couple hundred bucks feel insignificant.
No company gets that big without dirty associations. One of its cofounders, Ryan Cohen (now with GameStop), is a MAGA, anti-DEI guy. Its biggest shareholders include BlackRock and Vanguard, which support weapons manufacturing, private prisons, and the fossil fuel industry.
They’re definitely evil, and in an ideal world, we’d boycott everything they touch. Where that line starts and ends, though, is complicated, a personal choice. Per usual, it’s a jumbled, late-stage American capitalism mess: we’re critiquing AI on social media platforms owned by Meta, deriding human rights violations in the Congo on a brand-new iPhone with a freshly-mined chip of coltan inside, ordering dog toys from a corporation that's somehow connected to investments in Bitcoin mining.
People are pretty easy to hack, though. One way cold, inhumane corporate monoliths can mask their indifference to the suffering of the world is to put a human element front and center. This is where Chewy excels: the angelic customer service agents at the end of the line. They refunded an autoship cat food order after my kitty died. Commiserated with me about the chaos of raising a puppy. They tell me no, don’t send that return back, we'll never ask you to, we’ll just refund you immediately, please donate the item (or in my case, maybe sell it on Craigslist).
Stories of extreme niceness from Chewy employees abound: There’s the person who received a small painting of their bird in the mail after it died. Donations to animal rescues in the names of customers’ animals who’ve passed on. Bouquets of roses! It’s not necessary — the convenience of Chewy and the laziness of humanity is reason enough to come back time and again — but you can bet it builds a rock-solid customer base.
I confess that in our broken, individualistic society I’m a sucker for those kinds of niceties. So in this most terrible of terrible times I’ll probably continue shopping with Chewy, staying up until midnight to weigh the pros and cons of purchasing something called a HuggleHounds HuggleSnuffles SnuffleSphere.
Nuala Bishari is an investigative journalist and opinion columnist who's reported on the Bay Area since 2013. She writes about public health, homelessness, LGBTQ+ issues, and nature.
