21/08/2026
So we went to give out Free Hugs.
The more we do this, the more I realise that the hugs are actually only a tiny part of it.
There’s the person walking quickly through the city, clearly with somewhere to be, who spots the dogs without breaking stride. Their eyes follow them for a few seconds and, just as they pass, the corners of their mouth turn upwards. They never stop. They probably don’t even realise I noticed.
There’s the older person who approaches slowly. Sometimes walking with a stick, sometimes just a little less steady on their feet than they once were. They lower a hand onto a golden head and suddenly they’re telling me about the dog they had thirty years ago. The name. The breed. The funny thing they used to do. You realise that somewhere inside them is an entire lifetime in which a dog once played a very important part.
There are people who look like they could use a hug themselves.
They don’t necessarily come over. Sometimes they stand across the street for a while, watching. There’s a little smile, then it disappears. They look down, look back at the dogs, then eventually carry on with their day. I’ll never know what was happening in their world that morning. I just hope that for those few seconds, something felt a little lighter.
There’s the shy person who clearly wants to come over but doesn’t quite know how.
They hover at the edge. Pretend to look at their phone. Watch someone else have a hug. Walk away. Come back.
Sometimes it takes five or ten minutes before they finally kneel down beside a dog.
And suddenly they’re talking.
Because talking to a dog somehow feels easier than talking to a stranger.
There are people who tell me they’ve never touched a dog before. They’re frightened, but the sign has made them curious enough to stop.
“Can I really hug him?”
They put out one tentative hand. Huxley leans into it. A few minutes later they’re sitting beside him, laughing because they’ve just cuddled the first dog they have ever touched.
There’s the person sitting alone outside a café who has been watching us for ages. Eventually they abandon their coffee, cross the road and say, “I’ve been trying not to come over.”
There are children tugging at a parent’s sleeve as they pass and parents pretending they haven’t noticed because they know perfectly well that stopping means they’re going to be there for the next twenty minutes.
There are teenagers who walk past trying very hard to look completely uninterested, then one breaks formation and comes back. Suddenly the whole group is on the pavement cuddling dogs.
There are people who don’t speak much English, and people I don’t share a single word with at all.
They point to the sign.
I nod.
They point to the dog.
I nod again.
And somehow that’s enough.
There are people who kneel down and immediately bury their face into Huxley’s neck.
Sometimes they tell me afterwards that their dog died recently.
Sometimes they don’t have to tell me.
There are people who left a dog with family in another country when they moved to London. They pull out their phone and show me photographs. Suddenly I know their dog’s name, age and entire personality. For five minutes, two strangers stand on a London pavement talking about an animal thousands of miles away.
There are people waiting to get their first dog.
People who can’t have one where they live.
People who desperately want one but know their life isn’t right for it yet.
So for a few minutes, they borrow mine.
There are people who are older now and know they probably won’t have another dog. They stroke them a little longer.
There are people whose bodies don’t move as easily anymore, who might not have much strength to spare, but somehow find enough to wrap their arms around a golden retriever.
There are people on their way to work.
People coming home.
People on first dates.
People alone.
People surrounded by friends.
People carrying shopping, dragging suitcases, pushing prams, delivering parcels, running for trains.
Some stop.
Some slow down.
Some only look.
Sometimes someone walks straight past us, gets twenty metres down the road, stops, turns around and comes all the way back.
Sometimes someone sees us from a shop window and eventually appears at the door.
And sometimes a person comes running down the street because their partner has spotted us and sent them a message saying, “THE FREE HUG DOGS ARE HERE.”
Those ones always make me laugh.
But perhaps my favourite interactions are the ones that technically aren’t interactions at all.
The person on the other side of the road who catches Huxley’s eye.
The woman on the bus who smiles through the window.
The man who looks exhausted but watches Henrietta wagging her entire body at somebody and laughs to himself.
The person who almost stops, decides not to, and gives the dogs one last look over their shoulder.
Because I think we sometimes underestimate how much happens between people without a single word being exchanged.
I don’t know anything about most of the people who pass us.
I don’t know where they’re going, what they’ve lost, who they miss, what they’re worried about, whether they’re having the best year of their life or simply trying to make it through a difficult Tuesday.
And they don’t know anything about me.
For a few seconds, none of that matters.
There’s just a dog sitting on a pavement with a sign saying FREE HUGS.
Some people hug them.
Some stroke them.
Some talk to them.
Some just look.
But almost everybody walks away with something slightly different on their face than when they arrived.
And after three years of doing this, I think that might be my favourite part of all.
