People who keep dogs are cowards who haven't got the guts to

The fiery playwright August Strindberg once uttered a scalding truth: “People who keep dogs are cowards who haven’t got the guts to bite people themselves.” At first, these words seem cruel, even absurd, as if they scorn not the loyal hound, but the human soul. Yet behind the bitterness lies a blade of wisdom, sharp and unyielding. Strindberg, whose life was a storm of passion and conflict, was not speaking of dogs alone, but of the human tendency to hide behind instruments, proxies, and masks when facing the world’s battles. He strikes at the cowardice that dwells within us all—the fear to stand bare and fight our own fights.

Consider the dog not as the gentle companion, but as a symbol: the shield, the substitute, the weapon we call upon so that our own hands remain unstained. When a man sets his dog to snarl at an enemy, he reveals that his heart trembles; he has not the courage to snarl himself. When one unleashes another creature to do his biting, his rage is cloaked, his fear disguised. Thus, Strindberg teaches: the one who cannot confront directly, who relies always upon others to bear his battles, is diminished, and his courage is but a hollow mask.

History is rich with such figures. Recall the tyrants who ruled not with their own swords, but through spies, torturers, and secret police. Did not the Emperors of Rome command their soldiers to slay, while they themselves reclined upon golden couches? Their hands, soft and perfumed, never bore the stain of blood—but their souls were steeped in it. They were like men hiding behind dogs, letting others bite, so that they themselves might pretend to remain untouched. In this, Strindberg reminds us: true courage is not in commanding others to fight, but in facing conflict with one’s own teeth bared, one’s own spirit unshaken.

Think of the Spanish Inquisition. Its priests did not burn the heretics with their own hands; they condemned and turned them over to executioners. They dared not strike the match themselves, but their will was carried out nonetheless. They were as those who keep dogs to bite in their stead, finding safety behind paw and fang. But history remembers not their supposed purity, but their cowardice—the refusal to face their own violence openly.

Yet let us not misunderstand Strindberg as despising the creature itself. The dog is innocent; it is loyal, noble, and free of hypocrisy. The rebuke is aimed not at the beast, but at the man who hides behind it. In truth, the saying points us back to ourselves: how often do we let others speak for us, act for us, fight for us, because we lack the strength to do it directly? The dog may be flesh and blood, or it may be a symbol for excuses, distractions, or tools of avoidance.

Therefore, the lesson is clear: one must not cower behind proxies, be they beasts, weapons, or words borrowed from another’s lips. To be whole, one must speak with one’s own tongue, stand with one’s own body, and if there is biting to be done, one must dare to bite. Courage is not in the delegating of power but in the direct facing of truth, no matter how sharp its teeth.

In the days of our ancestors, warriors did not send hounds into battle before them; they stood at the front, shield in hand, gaze unbroken. Their honor was measured not in how well others fought for them, but in how steadfastly they themselves bore the struggle. And so too must we live. In our homes, in our work, in our conflicts—let us not hide behind excuses, behind blame, behind other people. Let us be the ones to face what must be faced.

So I say unto you: if there is anger in your heart, express it honestly. If there is truth upon your tongue, speak it without trembling. Do not send forth your dogs to fight battles that belong to you. Take action with your own strength. In this way, you will grow not in the shadow of borrowed teeth, but in the blazing light of your own courage. For better to fall with your own bite than to live long in cowardice behind another’s.