Our journey with hemp didn’t begin with strategy, vision boards or even a clear plan. It began, quite unexpectedly, with three tiny puppies. We had just started working with hemp when a stray mother chose a pile of hemp fibre outside our space to give birth. That’s how they entered our lives — three fragile lives nestled inside softness that came from the earth. At that time, we didn’t think much of it. We were simply trying to figure our way around this new material, this new world.
But the dogs stayed. And then more came. There were years when we had three, and moments when we had ten to fourteen sharing our space, our lives, our rhythms. And somewhere along the way, a pattern quietly revealed itself.
They always chose hemp. Loose fibre, hemp carpets, hemp bags, hemp fabric — without confusion, without experimentation. Even when we placed the softest synthetic cushions or the most plush dog beds next to them, they would walk away and find their way back to hemp.
When we first got hemp fabric, we made a sofa out of sheer excitement. It felt special, almost like bringing something raw and honest into our drawing room. But the dogs adored it more than we ever imagined. They claimed it, slept on it, rolled on it, played on it — until slowly it no longer felt “presentable” for guests. So it moved from the drawing room, became part of our everyday space, and eventually turned into bean bags.
It still exists. And so does the daily, gentle tug-of-war over it. Our oldest, Hempy— the very first one — is now nine. She has slowed down, become quieter, wiser perhaps. And these days, she finds her comfort curled up on that same old hemp bean bag. It has become her resting place, her little island of reassurance.
And it isn’t just dogs.
There were times when we would leave a packet of hemp seeds lying around, only to find the next morning that the hearts were gone and the shells lay neatly scattered on the floor. Even the rats seemed to know exactly what they were doing — carefully eating only what nourished them.
Sometimes our dogs chew on fresh hemp leaves from the garden too. Not playfully. Not aggressively. Almost knowingly. As if they are choosing, not just eating.
Over the years, this small detail kept returning to me. Why do animals always move towards natural materials? Why do they trust fibre, leaf, earth — even when something more “comfortable” lies right next to it? And then, quietly, another thought follows. When did we start choosing differently?
When did we begin trusting shine more than substance, appearance more than alignment? When did comfort become something we define through aesthetics rather than intuition?
Animals don’t debate. They don’t compare. They simply know. And perhaps that is what feels so moving about watching Hempy today, resting peacefully, breathing rhythmically, her body surrendering into the familiar touch of hemp. No effort. No overthinking. Just a quiet choice that feels right.
Maybe this isn’t a story about dogs. Maybe it isn’t even about hemp. Maybe it isn’t about why dogs choose hemp. Maybe it’s about remembering a gentler relationship with the world around us. One where instinct guides us home.
And as I watch her sleep, I smile at this silent teacher who never needed words.
