My dog Bramble has approximately seventeen nicknames, sleeps on my bed despite my half-hearted attempts to establish boundaries, and has a carbon footprint that might actually be larger than mine. That last bit is the uncomfortable truth that I, as both an environmental writer and a besotted dog owner, have had to come to terms with over the past few years. The 40-pound rescue mutt snoring next to me as I write this—currently responding to “Professor Wigglesworth” due to his dignified gray muzzle and decidedly undignified butt-wiggling greeting ritual—is both the light of my life and a not-insignificant contributor to my household’s environmental impact.
I adopted Bramble four years ago from a local shelter, falling instantly in love with his soulful eyes and slightly wonky ear. The adoption counselor described him as a “lab mix with some shepherd, possibly some beagle, and definitely a splash of something else entirely.” In other words, he’s the perfect combination of everything, including apparently insatiable energy and an uncanny ability to locate and roll in fox poo within seconds of its deposition.
When I brought him home, I was already well-established in my environmental habits. My flat was stocked with bamboo toothbrushes, refillable cleaning products, and enough mason jars to survive any conceivable apocalypse. I composted religiously, biked everywhere, and knew the carbon footprint of practically everything I consumed. And then Bramble bounded into my life, trailing pet store purchases, chicken-based kibble, and more plastic poop bags than I care to remember.
The cognitive dissonance was immediate and intense. Here I was, the woman who once wrote a 3,000-word blog post about reducing bathroom plastic, suddenly acquiring squeaky toys made of who-knows-what material and buying processed meat products by the kilo. It wasn’t that I’d never considered the environmental impact of pets before—I’d written about it in passing. But experiencing it firsthand was different. Theoretical knowledge crashed headlong into the reality of responsible pet ownership, and I found myself making compromises I never thought I would.
Research suggests that a medium-sized dog like Bramble has an annual carbon footprint of around 0.8-1.0 tonnes CO2e—roughly equivalent to running two refrigerators for a year or driving a standard car for about 2,500 miles. Cats fare somewhat better at about 0.15-0.25 tonnes, but still have substantial impacts. And globally, pet food consumption alone is responsible for about 64 million tonnes of CO2e, comparable to the emissions of a medium-sized country.
When confronted with these numbers, some environmental purists might suggest the only truly green choice is not to have pets at all. But that approach ignores the profound emotional, psychological, and even physical health benefits pets bring to our lives. My blood pressure quite literally drops when Bramble places his head on my lap during particularly stressful work deadlines. The structured routine of his walks has been a mental health lifeline during difficult periods. And research consistently shows that pet ownership is associated with reduced risk of heart disease, decreased loneliness, and increased physical activity.
So the question isn’t whether pets are “worth” their environmental impact—a calculation that reduces complex bonds to mere carbon accounting—but rather how we can minimize that impact while maintaining our animals’ health and happiness. It’s about finding that sweet spot where responsible pet ownership and environmental consciousness can coexist.
For me, this journey started with the biggest contributor to Bramble’s footprint: his food. Conventional pet food, particularly for dogs and cats, is heavily meat-based. This makes sense from a nutritional perspective—dogs are omnivores with carnivorous leanings, while cats are obligate carnivores—but it’s also where their environmental impact is concentrated. The meat industry is resource-intensive, with significant emissions from everything from feed production to methane from livestock.
My first instinct was to investigate vegetarian or vegan dog food. While this works for some dogs (though never for cats, who physiologically require animal products), I wasn’t comfortable making that choice for Bramble without rock-solid evidence that it would meet all his nutritional needs. Instead, I found a more moderate path: insect-based dog food.
Yes, you read that correctly. Insect protein offers a fascinating middle ground—it provides the complete amino acid profile carnivores need but with dramatically lower environmental impacts than conventional meat. Black soldier fly larvae, mealworms, and crickets can be raised with minimal land use, little water, and primarily on food waste streams. Their conversion efficiency—turning feed into protein—is remarkable compared to typical livestock.
The first time I opened a bag of insect-based kibble, I’ll admit I was skeptical. It looked… well, like normal kibble, actually. Bramble, who would happily eat a discarded kebab wrapper if given the chance, showed zero hesitation. He’s been thriving on it for over two years now, with the enthusiastic approval of our vet who checks his bloodwork annually.
Another option I’ve explored is incorporating MSC-certified fish into his diet. Sustainably caught smaller fish species like mackerel have lower environmental impacts than beef or lamb while providing excellent nutrition for dogs. I occasionally supplement Bramble’s insect kibble with these fish options, which he considers an absolute treat. Some pet foods are now being made with byproducts from human food production that would otherwise go to waste—another way to reduce the impact without compromising nutrition.
Food was just the beginning, though. The second major challenge was waste management—specifically, the twice-daily ritual of picking up what my mother delicately refers to as “Bramble’s contributions to the garden.” Those little black plastic bags add up alarmingly fast. Biodegradable options exist, but many require industrial composting facilities to actually break down. After some research, I switched to bags made from cornstarch that genuinely compost in home systems.
This led to my most eyebrow-raising sustainability project to date: building a dedicated pet waste composter in my tiny back garden. It’s essentially a modified septic system—a buried container with holes in the bottom filled with a layer of gravel, then soil and enzyme activators. The waste breaks down and filters through the system without contaminating groundwater or creating odor issues. My neighbors were initially concerned when they saw me digging what looked suspiciously like a grave-sized hole, but they’ve since become curious converts to the concept.
The system works beautifully for disposing of Bramble’s waste, but with one crucial caveat—this compost is absolutely NOT suitable for food gardens due to potential pathogen concerns. I use the resulting material only for ornamental plants and mention this prominently whenever I explain the system to interested friends. Safety first, always.
Toys and accessories present another sustainability challenge for pet owners. The pet industry thrives on novelty and planned obsolescence—flimsy toys designed to be quickly destroyed and replaced, seasonal costumes (which, let’s be honest, are more for our amusement than their benefit), and endless gadgets of questionable utility.
I’ve developed a simple framework for Bramble’s things: fewer, better, longer-lasting items. His collar is handmade from sustainably harvested cork “leather” and has lasted three years and counting. His leash is hemp, which gets softer and more comfortable with age rather than deteriorating like nylon versions. For toys, I focus on natural rubber and organic cotton options, though I’ll admit he still has a peculiar attachment to one thoroughly unsustainable squeaky fox that has somehow survived since his first week home.
Perhaps the most successful eco-friendly switch has been using old tennis balls from the local club as fetch toys—they’re destined for landfill anyway, and Bramble doesn’t care in the slightest that they’ve lost their bounce for human players. The club manager now saves them specifically for “Bramble’s recycling service,” as she calls it.
For bedding, I replaced his synthetic-filled bed with one stuffed with kapok fiber—a natural, sustainable material that’s also hypoallergenic and naturally repels mites. The cover is made from hemp and organic cotton, with a waterproof layer made from plant-based materials rather than plastics. It was admittedly expensive upfront, but after two years it looks practically new, unlike his previous beds that needed replacing annually.
Grooming supplies were another area ripe for improvement. I switched to shampoo bars specifically formulated for dogs, eliminating plastic bottles and reducing shipping weight. For flea and tick prevention, I worked with our vet to find the most environmentally friendly option that’s still effective—ultimately selecting a treatment with the lowest aquatic toxicity, as these chemicals eventually make their way into water systems.
Even veterinary care has sustainability dimensions worth considering. I chose a clinic within walking distance rather than driving to appointments. They offer telemedicine consultations for minor concerns, reducing unnecessary trips. And they’ve implemented their own sustainability initiatives, including waste reduction protocols and energy-efficient equipment.
Of course, none of these changes happened overnight. It was a gradual process of identifying the highest-impact areas and addressing them one by one as resources and options became available. And there are still areas where I compromise—Bramble’s medication comes in plastic packaging I can’t avoid, and his annual vaccinations generate medical waste that’s necessary for his health and public safety.
The most surprising outcome of my sustainable pet journey has been how it’s influenced others. The questions started casually—other dog owners at the park asking about Bramble’s unusual cork collar or commenting on his hemp leash. These conversations evolved into deeper discussions about pet food options, local waste management solutions, and the broader environmental impact of our animal companions.
When my friend Sophia adopted a rescue cat last year, she called me specifically to ask about sustainable litter options. I recommended a brand made from reclaimed wood waste that’s fully compostable, and she reported back that her new kitten took to it immediately. My neighbor Mark, inspired by Bramble’s waste composter, installed his own for his two dachshunds. Even my mother, not generally one for environmental experimentation, has switched her elderly Westie to insect protein treats after witnessing Bramble’s enthusiasm for them.
There’s something powerful about seeing sustainability principles applied to something as emotionally significant as pet care. It moves the conversation away from abstract environmental concepts and into the realm of love and daily caregiving routines. People who might dismiss other eco-friendly practices as too difficult or inconvenient often find pet-related changes more approachable because they’re motivated by love for their animals.
Of course, the perfect shouldn’t be the enemy of the good. Not everyone has the time, resources, or local options to implement every sustainable pet care practice. The key is starting somewhere—perhaps with pet food choices, which typically represent the largest part of their environmental pawprint, or with more durable toys and accessories that need less frequent replacement.
Bramble has just wandered over and placed his chin on my knee, a not-so-subtle hint that typing time should give way to walking time. As I clip his cork collar and grab his hemp leash, I’m reminded that sustainable pet ownership isn’t about achieving some perfect ideal or eliminating all impact. It’s about making thoughtful choices that balance environmental considerations with our animals’ wellbeing and the joy they bring to our lives.
Tonight, Professor Wigglesworth will still sleep on my bed, snoring gently and occasionally twitching as he chases dream rabbits. His carbon pawprint isn’t zero, but it’s significantly smaller than it once was. And in return for my efforts to minimize his environmental impact, he gives something beyond measure—companionship, love, and a daily reminder that caring for our planet and caring for each other are deeply intertwined endeavors. Plus, he’s absolutely excellent at finding fox poo, a skill that remains stubbornly resistant to sustainable alternatives.
