Makings of an Aspie Pup

Dirtpaw. (Author’s own photo.)

When I was a kid, my two best friends were sisters, whose divorcee mother struggled to make ends meet while she put herself through university. The Barbie Star Traveler Motor Home they pined for one Christmas was out of reach, so I took it upon myself to make them one out of a shoebox, complete with shag carpeting, a velvet-trimmed bedroom and a foil-lined bathroom.

And then I put Ken and GI Joe in bed together.

Barbie got the bathtub.

No foreshadowing there. And the obsessive attention to detail was another clue I was too young to understand. The hours I spent getting everything exactly right. It never occurred to me that other kids wouldn’t do the same.

I started riding bikes when I was 5. Initially BMXing, later mountain biking and freeriding. In secondary school, I became part of the skateboarding scene. I knew I was gay but I didn’t fit into that “box” during a time when everybody had a box. The skaters, the jocks, the stoners, the geeks. It was a simpler time. And I didn’t identify with the gay community. It felt to me like if you weren’t a hairless twink or gym bunny, no one wanted to know anyway. So, I threw myself off stairs and ledges, scraping a few knees and breaking a few bones along the way. (I wrote about it recently.)

“I do feel. Deeply, in fact.”

I figured out early on that I didn’t think or feel things like most people. I would be distracted one day, hyper-focused the next. Numbers had distinct personalities and moods. My attention to detail was obsessive. And my engagements in social situations were often erratic, chaotic, conflicted—

Let’s call it quirky.

I once witnessed a man die when his scooter was hit by a speeding car. I knew I was experiencing trauma and shock inside, but nothing showed outside beyond some slight tremors in my hands. I do feel. Deeply, in fact. But this emotional disconnect has always been a part of me. I often have to “act” to convey an estimation of my emotions to others.

In my mid-20s I was diagnosed “high-functioning Asperger’s Syndome.” We call it Autism Spectrum Disorder Level 1 today. The language has moved on, but like many others diagnosed during that time, the term Aspie became an almost affectionate identity for the condition.

By this point, I’d learned to mask the traits much of the time and so, from the outside, I sat awkwardly in the space between the normies (neurotypicals) and those whose autism was more visible.

Dirtpaw reflecting. (Author’s own photo.)

When I feel comfortable in an environment, or I’m with people I trust, I’m outgoing and confident, even friendly. But I’m not good when strangers get in my space or touch me. It feels like pure, liquid revulsion pouring into every cell, permeating my body from my core to my extremities. I become withdrawn. Some would say standoffish. Or unapproachable. Apparently I have peak resting bitch face, which is kind of a blessing because it means the seat next to me on the bus is usually empty. Sweat trickles down my spine into the waistband of my boxers. On a crowded train, I’ll find myself, at times, clasping my hands behind my head, elbows jutting out in front of me, to keep others at bay.

And whoever invented noise cancelling headphones, I’d… uh… have your babies. Or try.

That said, I am very independent and love to explore, particularly on my own. I’ve become adept at avoiding the situations and environments that trigger me.

But avoidance isn’t the same as peace. For years I was looking for something that would quiet my brain without me having to mask. I eventually found it.

I started pupping on the quiet in 2017. No hood or tail, nothing but me in my own company. Getting into the headspace provided me some respite from the loud, sometimes overwhelming world around me. It was calming, soothing. A safe, peaceful space in my head, slowing my thoughts and clearing my mind.

At that point, I didn’t know much about the pup community beyond living it vicariously through others’ curated lives on social media. For some, it was a kink with roots in BDSM, for others it was a way to connect socially. Regardless, the version of pupping I’d made for myself felt right.

“If you can’t understand the difference between role-play among consenting adults and actual animal abuse, you’re a fucking idiot.”

Oh yeah. Let’s shut this shit down right now. No. Pup play has nothing to do with bestiality. We mimic dog behaviour. Play, loyalty, pack dynamics. We don’t fuck animals. If you can’t understand the difference between role-play among consenting adults and actual animal abuse, you’re a fucking idiot. Please never vote. Or procreate.

I love colour. My olive-toned skin means I can pull off colours like fluoro green or orange without looking like a reanimated corpse. I started working on myself to get in better shape. As motivation, I bought a neoprene harness, collar, shorts and a pair of armbands in lime and purple with the intent to explore my kinkier side once I toned up. Wearing the gear was like getting a hug, but I wasn’t ready for the big bad world to see this side of me just yet.

Purple. Purple and lime. Purple and orange. My colours. (Author’s own photos.)

In early 2024, a switch flipped in my head and I found myself unwilling to be quiet about my pup side anymore. I finally got my first hood and started connecting with the local pup community, unsure of what to expect. To me it was social, not sexual, and I didn’t know my place. Would I have to choose to be dominant? Submissive? Could I be a stray? Did I need to find a pack or a handler? Would other pups accept me? So many questions. And even more anxiety.

Thankfully the world has moved on. The black and white boxes from my younger years are now shades of grey. Likewise, the pup community has evolved from its BDSM roots into an incredibly diverse space. Beyond the givens, respect and consent, there are few rules. Its existence and meaning are unique and personal to each pup.

My first pup event was also my first public appearance in the harness. When the hood went on, my fears melted away. I felt calm immediately. Focused and confident. In front of other people. Or pups in this case. A revelation.

Hoods are a social leveller. In ‘hooman’ form, our fight-or-flight instinct subconsciously evaluates (makes assumptions about) everyone we encounter. This is based on the first thing we usually notice, the face. When everyone is wearing a hood, that evaluation is now based on their chosen colour, style, posture, mannerism and persona.

So, about colour. The pup community generally doesn’t align to the longstanding hanky code. Most pups choose the colours they like, the ones that represent their personality. There’s usually nothing more to it.

Tactical pup. (Author’s own photo.)

The persona. Snuggle pup. Alpha, beta or omega pup. Tactical pup. Service pup. Glitter pup. Protector pup. Kinky pup. For many of us it’s a mix of traits that ties in with our chosen breed. Something separate from who we are, or wish we were, when we’re doing the day job.

But if we’re going to do boxes, I suppose you could say I’m a stray tactical Alsatian (German Shepherd) snuggle pup. I have natural leadership tendencies, I’m loyal and fiercely protective of those I care about, I’m athletic and I love a good cuddle. There is also a lot of service pup in me. It brings me joy to ensure the pups I’m with are comfortable, fed and watered. I’ll even submit, when the energy is right, to a good belly rub or a pull of my collar.

Out and about. (Author’s own photos.)

Now forget the boxes and labels. I’m just Dirtpaw the Pup, doing what comes naturally to me and fitting into the wider pack organically. An ongoing process. Sometimes, when I’m feeling strong and confident inside, the tactical vibe better reflects my mood outside. The lime harness stays home in lieu of a plate carrier, a fitted black tee and a pair of baggy camos. Other times, it’s dungarees or shorts. My presentation signifies to other pups where my head’s at, and what to expect from me that day.

As adults, many of us stopped playing, in the traditional sense, around age 11 or 12. There’s something cathartic about being with others, often those we know only by their chosen pup name, to wrestle, bury each other in a ball pit, play catch or fetch, drift off in a dogpile on a mound of cushions… it reconnects you to your childhood, a time with far less stress and responsibility. For me, this respite leaves me with an afterglow of calm and contentment for the next several days. During this time, my brain puts up less of a fight.

If you’ve heard of pup play at all, it’s probably through Channel 4’s Secret Life of the Human Pups, a sensationalized documentary that focused on the most extreme practitioners and largely ignored what the community actually is for most of us. It reinforced every stereotype from deviant and sexual to bizarre. That’s not the reality for most of us.

I’m not looking for a handler or master, and I’m sure as fuck not gonna eat or drink out of a bowl on the floor. If that’s your bag, go forth and be merry. But it’s not my thing. I’m there for the cuddles, hugs, body contact, belly rubs, video games, films, or just a chillout sesh together in the pup headspace.

Between five and eight out of ten pups are neurodivergent, depending who you ask. For many, the hood becomes a symbol, even a tool, to distance ourselves from our autism. A way to communicate (verbally or non-verbally), socialise and, ironically, have human contact. And let our inner selves come out to play. Like our bio counterparts, the urge to pull together into packs is strong. For many, strong enough to at least loosen the shackles of our spicy brains.

Puppy days! (Author’s own photos.)

The pup community isn’t without issues. Like any community, it has its fair share of bullshit. Pups disclosing the HIV status of other pups on the downlow under the guise of “looking out of others.” It is never okay to do that and I’ve cut ties over it. And pups spreading vindictive rumours that imply assault without making direct accusations. Innuendo that destroys reputations and lives. All of this is abhorrent behaviour and for that reason, beyond cuddles and play, I do not engage sexually within the community.

Having gone into the pup community as a stray by choice, bonds inevitably formed. The pack instinct is impossible to resist. Most are casual friends and acquaintances but, for a time, four of us came together into something deeper, an unofficial pack of sorts. A connection of support and companionship, in many ways a familial bond away from the inevitable politics of the wider scene. We often met up for pup days around the city, travelled to events in other cities and were there for each other through some good and bad times. It ran its course and I’m a happy stray again, but grateful it happened.

I’ve been connected to a community and, ultimately, to people I care for deeply, thanks to a few pieces of neoprene sewn together from a pattern with roots in BDSM.

“Sometimes it takes a hood to remove the mask.”

The gear is by no means a must but, for many of us with neurodivergence, it can be, symbolically and physically, a way for our inner selves to shine, and an enabler to connect with others in a more basic, fundamental, almost primal way. Sometimes it takes a hood to remove the mask.

The pup community which, from the outside, is viewed by some as deviant or sordid, has done more for my mental health and wellbeing than any prescription drug or therapy session. It has given me joy, value and a sense of self.

Imagine what a better place the world would be if we were all a bit more dog.

Dirtpaw at it, writing. (Author’s own photo.)