In The Year of the Dog, Molly Shannon is Peggy Spade, the quintessential office wall-flower: perpetually single, everyone’s friend, and destined to forever be the bridesmaid-never-the-bride.  Peggy is perfectly content to live a quiet, solitary life with her devoted little beagle Pencil by her side.  As any pet owner knows, her life is filled with moments of overwhelming joy, companionship, unconditional love, and acceptance.  Tragically, Peggy’s life is turned upside-down when Pencil meets his unfortunate demise after a late-night jaunt into a neighbor’s yard.  

Despondent from the death of her beloved friend, Peggy, at the urging of a co-worker, tries her hand again at a human relationship.  One memorable date with her well-intentioned, albeit clueless, neighbor Al (the marvelous John C. Reilly) quickly dashes all expectations.  The fact that Al is an avid knife (!) hunter who accidentally killed his own dog as a youth all but confirm her notion as men being impossible animals to figure out.  

A glimmer of hope presents itself as she meets Newt, a single, if somewhat sexually ambiguous, dog trainer.  He convinces her to adopt a behaviorally-challenged German shepherd named Valentine and also turns Peggy on to the pleasures of veganism and animal rights activism.  With newfound confidence and purpose in life (about being called “vegan” she says “it’s great to have a word to describe you”), Peggy allows herself to fall for Newt—only to have him spurn her advances.  Of course, he says it’s not about her.

Her life quickly tailspins into single-minded desperation as she abandons all social and relational ethics in her pursuit of animal rights dragging her young niece and nephew to a slaughterhouse and hording unwanted dogs in her home.  

From there the film degenerates from a charming, if somewhat dark, comedy to a convoluted mess—an overly preachy manifesto on veganism and activism.  It’s unfortunate because the first forty minutes are so promising that it almost makes the rest of the film tolerable.  Shannon captures Peggy’s pathos splendidly and her smile, even in the best of times, hides a hint of sadness and loneliness that is heartbreaking.  

Screenwriter Mike White, in his first stint as director, fumbles the opportunity to explore the great impact that our pets have on our lives.  One only needs to hear the aawws and knowing chuckles of the audience watching Pencil and Peggy to understand that it is a universal emotion shared between owners and their pets.  As Peggy says, pets are not petty, they love unconditionally and they do not backstab—unlike her human relationships.  In her experience, men are “dogs” and dogs are, well, true companions.

Her love affair with her dogs mirrors the relationship we have to the one who created us all—their dependence and unconditional love towards us and our utter dependence on them for joy and meaning.  Focusing on the touching simplicity of that may sound a little trite but it would have been much more effective and real.  Instead, White chooses to go the route of shock value and extremism—the result is we don’t feel any sympathy and compassion for Peggy, only pity.

In the end, there is redemption and hope for her as she finds a cause that is greater than herself.  Finally comfortable in her own skin and armed with a newfound confidence, Peggy is going to be just fine.  Too bad that she had to go through such a bizarre journey to get there.