By Charles Usher

In one of my last year’s columns I wrote about getting a dog in Korea – the process, where people looking for a pet can adopt, and a bit about what it’s like having a dog in Korea, as opposed to the United States or Europe.

In this column I’m going to dig a bit deeper into that last question and talk about how having a pet has impacted my life in Seoul. First, to recap, in January, my girlfriend and I adopted a roughly one-and-a-half-year-old Jindo mix that we named Bono. (Two long ‘O’s, not like the Irish guy. I like U2, but I don’t like them that much.)

Last time I wrote that Koreans’ initial reaction to seeing Bono is almost always “Oh, that's a big dog!” I retract that statement. That’s almost always their second reaction. The first is almost always “Oh, kwiyeoweo!” (“Oh, he’s so cute!”) Now, this isn’t just me bragging. I’m actually going to make a point here, which is that owning a mutt has made me realize that there’s much more of a place in Korea for mutts than I’d previously thought.

As the culture of pet ownership is still relatively young in Korea, dogs are sometimes thought of as a possession, something to show off your personal style – more of a reflection of the owner than a being in their own right. (To be perfectly fair, that’s hardly a Korean-only trait.) You’ll be hard-pressed to find non-purebreds in pet shops. Koreans even have a term for mutts – they call them ddong-gae, which literally means “poop dog.” The term is often used affectionately, but it gives you some idea of the place of mixed-breed dogs in the canine hierarchy here.

All the dogs I’ve ever owned have been ddong-gae, so I’m rather partial and have always been a bit peevish about some Koreans’ attitudes toward them. This, I’ll admit, has often veered into being prejudiced about what I assumed was Koreans’ prejudice. But owning a mutt in Korea has shown that I greatly overestimated Koreans’ elitism about breeds. When you have a dog who’s a mix of god-knows-what, and he’s greeted daily with a chorus of “Kwiyeoweo!” it serves as a constant reminder that your assumptions – about not just attitudes toward dogs but about pretty much everything else, too – are almost always wrong.

Now, getting back to what I mistakenly said was the first thing Koreans say about Bono: that he’s big. Bono is slightly larger than a beagle, which, to my mind, isn’t big. Because most people in Seoul live in apartments, though, most pet dogs are terrier-size or smaller, and by those standards Bono is big. Whereas my instinct is to let Bono have free reign when we’re out for walks – leash extended all the way; You wanna go over there and smell that thing? Sure, let’s go over there and smell that thing – my girlfriend generally keeps a shorter leash and tighter control over him, at least when people are around.

As usual, she’s right, of course. Because they’re less familiar with big dogs, and, if they’re also dog owners, my dog is probably much bigger than theirs, many people view Bono as a potential threat. He’s been called aggressive for doing literally nothing, just for being a bigger dog.

In the U.S., this perception wasn’t something I had to worry about, but in Korea I do. Although I know my dog’s disposition well – relaxed, generally indifferent to people he doesn’t know, nice to smaller dogs – much of taking him for a walk entails gauging people’s perception of him as a “big” dog. And this isn’t a passive exercise. Because this is Seoul, there are almost always people around, and because Korean culture places so much emphasis on the community, it’s my job to make sure that Bono doesn’t infringe on other people’s and, by extension, the community’s, sense of safety. I’ve had to learn to walk (dogs) again.

Lastly, my favorite unforeseen part of having a dog in Korea. Unlike my fellow Americans, Koreans aren’t the kind of people who will strike up a conversation with a random stranger (a trait I generally appreciate), but that changes entirely if you have a dog. Instantly you’re approachable, and people will pepper you with questions about your pet – its name, its age, its breed. Occasionally these will sprout into longer discussions. I’ve had more conversations with strangers in the four months since I’ve gotten Bono than in four years before I got him.

This effect hasn’t just improved my Korean; it’s also given me a much stronger connection to my neighborhood. There are people that I know now, that I say hello to and chat with – our veterinarian, fellow dog owners, the girl at the take-out coffee place that Bono likes – that I didn’t before. (And if this sounds insignificant, well, you’ve obviously never lived in Seoul, a city that practically invented urban anonymity.) Without Bono, I’d be just some foreign guy in the neighborhood. With him, I’m a neighbor.

Charles Usher is a travel columnist and author of the book "Seoul Sub→urban."