Much has already been said about the legalities and shaky ethics behind the Supreme Court’s order on Delhi’s street dogs. But beyond the legal wrangling lies a deeper question: what sort of ‘order’ do we imagine for our public spaces, and who should shape it?

I spent part of the year in Britain, where the very idea of stray dogs – or stray cows, or stray anything – wandering freely would be met with disbelief. There, dogs are groomed, tagged, neutered, vaccinated, and invariably docile. Golden Retrievers and Collies travel silently on trains, sit under restaurant tables as waiters bring them water, and are petted by strangers.

In many households, especially those of childfree individuals or elderly single people, dogs occupy a cherished role. All dogs in the UK must be microchipped by the time they’re eight weeks old and registered on a government-approved database. Excessive barking can be deemed a statutory nuisance and may lead to legal action. Non-compliance with dog laws can result in fines, prosecution, and even the removal of the dog.

This kind of canine gentrification, which some in Delhi seek to emulate, did not arrive without disrupting the community. The UK’s Dangerous Dogs Act (1991), for example, tightly regulated breeds, imposed strict liability on owners, and enshrined the idea that ‘your dog’s behaviour is your responsibility.’

But will what works in the West – supported by a socio-legal framework underpinned by long-entrenched notions of ‘individualism’ and ‘private and public space’ – achieve similar results here? I think not.

We saw firsthand how an imported model faltered on Delhi’s roads in 2008 with the Bus Rapid Transit (BRT) corridor. A design confining buses to a dedicated lane, successful in other countries, failed because the public largely refused to adopt it, accustomed as we were to mixed-traffic norms.

Indian cities and towns are built on a particular conception of communal space, where boundaries, both physical and social, are porous. We ignore our footpaths, which are riddled with potholes, and walk instead on the roads alongside everything from bullock carts to cars, weaving between moving traffic and street vendors. The street itself is an extension of the home: people chat on doorsteps, children play cricket, tents are routinely erected, and wedding or festival processions march through.

Within this setting, the colony or street dog is not a ‘trespasser’ but part of the community that lives in a long-standing partnership with residents, serving as watchman and companion. The dog occupies a distinctive niche in our sharply divided urban landscape. Moving with ease through slums and affluent neighbourhoods, gated enclaves and open apartment complexes, it is at home by the chaiwallah, the temple gates, or in the manicured lanes where morning walkers pause to offer it a biscuit before continuing on their way. It survives on such gestures of casual care, even as it endures neglect or cruelty from others.

This way of living has long vanished in the West, where every dog has an owner, an address, and a vet record. And yet, in some of the more affluent areas of Indian cities, there is a growing desire to emulate the Western model of private space, which is tightly controlled, sanitised, and bound to its owner – an impulse strangely at odds with the wider communal culture of India.

Removing street dogs would not just reconfigure our neighbourhoods’ social character but widen the gap between those subscribing to imported ideals of private order and India’s firmly rooted communal approach to public space. Western-style laws may appear neat on paper, but they often unravel here, as we lack strictly individualistic ideas and a public accustomed to constant, streamlined surveillance.

Enforcement in our urban spaces, meanwhile, can oscillate between ruthless crackdowns and prolonged neglect, reflecting at best an ambivalent relationship between citizens and the state. Much like traffic rules or waste segregation, laws mandating the removal or confinement of every dog are misaligned with deeply ingrained notions of space and community, which is why they are meeting public resistance and are likely to see evasion and circumvention in the future.

Public safety is, of course, important: India accounts for roughly 35% of global rabies deaths, claiming 18,000–20,000 lives annually. Yet the Supreme Court’s order to remove street dogs from Delhi-NCR risks contravening the Animal Birth Control (Dogs) Rules, 2023, which aim to manage stray populations humanely.

The case of Lucknow shows what is possible: by achieving an 84% sterilisation target alongside active community participation, the city has gradually reduced stray dog populations without alienating citizens or erasing the character of public spaces. The World Health Organization similarly notes that sustainable street dog management in India depends on local community involvement and context-sensitive approaches.

Quick-fix solutions, if not adapted to local culture, are unlikely to produce lasting change. Laws grow in the soil of the societies they serve. When transplanted out of context, they can sow confusion and social tension.

The debate over Delhi’s street dogs ultimately boils down to a question of who controls public space and whose vision of order prevails. Respecting our own geo-specific social fabric may be the most humane and effective way to address the problem.

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