The Question Before the Question

For most of my life in the animal industry, I thought I was learning about nutrition. Like everyone else, I started where the conversation always seemed to start. What should dogs eat? Which ingredients are good? Which ones are bad? How much protein do they need? Is one diet healthier than another? Whether the discussion involved kibble, raw feeding, home prepared diets or supplements, it almost always began with food. Looking back, I don't think that was because people lacked knowledge. I think it was because we had all accepted the same starting point without ever questioning whether it was the right one.

The more I studied, the more uncomfortable I became with that way of thinking. I wasn't finding contradictions within nutrition itself. I was finding something much bigger. We seemed to be making decisions about the care of an animal before we had taken the time to properly understand the animal itself. It struck me as odd that we could spend hours discussing nutrients while barely stopping to ask why a dog has the anatomy, physiology and behaviour that it does. Somewhere along the way, I began to realise that I wasn't really studying nutrition at all. I was studying the dog, and once I started doing that, nutrition found its place naturally instead of occupying the first page of the conversation.

That simple shift changed everything.

Today, when someone asks me what they should feed their dog, my mind doesn't immediately go to brands, ingredients or nutrient profiles. It goes to biology. Before I can have an honest conversation about feeding, I first want to understand the animal standing in front of me. Not the latest feeding trend. Not the latest research paper in isolation. The animal itself. What is it? What biological story does its body tell? What has shaped it into the organism we now call the domestic dog? I have found that those questions provide a far more stable foundation than beginning with a food bowl, because once you understand the animal, many of the answers begin to reveal themselves.

Modern science has given us extraordinary knowledge, but it has also encouraged us to divide the body into separate disciplines. We have specialists in nutrition, specialists in behaviour, specialists in dentistry, specialists in dermatology, specialists in orthopaedics and specialists for almost every organ system within the body. There is nothing wrong with that. Specialisation has advanced both human and veterinary medicine in remarkable ways. The difficulty comes when those divisions begin to shape the way we think about the animal itself. We become so accustomed to studying individual parts that we slowly forget those parts have never existed independently of one another.

A dog's mouth has never worked alone. Neither has its stomach. Its digestive tract does not function independently of its nervous system, and its behaviour cannot be separated from the physiology that supports it. Every structure within the body depends upon countless others, all working together in ways that are often impossible to fully appreciate. Remove one piece and the others adjust. Change one part and the effects ripple throughout the rest of the system. This isn't unique to dogs. It is true of every living organism because life has never evolved one body part at a time. Evolution acts upon whole organisms living within real environments, preserving those whose biological systems work together well enough to survive and reproduce.

That idea has become the foundation of how I think about animal welfare because it changes the question entirely. Instead of asking whether a particular intervention supplies enough nutrients, stimulates enough exercise or prevents enough disease, I find myself asking something much more fundamental. Does this decision make sense for the biological system that evolved to produce the animal standing in front of me? Sometimes the answer is yes. Sometimes it isn't. Sometimes we simply don't know. What matters is that biology becomes the reference point rather than an afterthought, because I believe that is where every conversation about animal care should begin.

It is easy to think of evolution as something that happened a long time ago and has little relevance to the Labrador sleeping on the lounge or the Border Collie chasing a ball through the backyard. I think the opposite is true. Evolution is not just the history of the dog. It is written throughout the dog's body. Every tooth, every joint, every muscle, every instinct and every physiological process tells part of that story. The body is, in many ways, a record of the environment that shaped it. If we want to understand what a dog needs, it makes sense to begin by reading that record rather than assuming we already know the answer.

The more I looked at dogs through this lens, the more I realised that the body never tells one story. It tells the same story over and over again through different structures. A single feature can sometimes be dismissed as coincidence, but when the teeth, jaws, digestive tract, stomach, behaviour and physiology all point towards the same ecological history, coincidence becomes a far less convincing explanation. Instead, what begins to emerge is a pattern, and biology is built upon recognising patterns.

Take the mouth as an example. Most people see teeth as tools for chewing food into smaller pieces before swallowing. That explanation is true, but it feels incomplete because it immediately reduces the mouth to a single job. When I look at a dog's mouth, I don't just see teeth. I see an entire feeding system. I see powerful jaw muscles capable of applying enormous force. I see carnassial teeth designed to slice rather than grind. I see canines that grip and hold. I see a neck built to pull, twist and tear. None of those structures developed independently of one another. They work together because they evolved together, and together they tell the story of an animal whose relationship with food was very different from pouring dry biscuits into a bowl twice a day.

The stomach continues that same story. We know that a dog's stomach is capable of expanding dramatically, far beyond what most owners ever see in everyday life. We know it produces highly acidic digestive juices. We know dogs are capable of fasting for periods that would concern many people if viewed through a human lens. None of those observations exist in isolation. They describe an animal that evolved within a feast and famine ecology where success depended on taking advantage of opportunity when it appeared rather than relying on predictable meals arriving every morning and every evening. The stomach does not make sense by itself. It only makes sense when viewed alongside the environment that shaped it.

This is where I believe we sometimes underestimate what anatomy can teach us. We often treat anatomy as though it simply describes the body, but anatomy is much more than a list of structures. It is the physical record of countless generations of natural selection. Every feature that remains tells us something about the problems the animal had to solve in order to survive. That doesn't mean every trait is perfect or that evolution produces ideal solutions. It means the body carries the history of the environment that shaped it, and if we ignore that history, we risk misunderstanding the animal standing in front of us.

I sometimes hear people say that we need outcome studies before we can draw any conclusions from these observations. I understand why they say that because science rightly asks for evidence. At the same time, I think it is important to recognise that biology has always relied upon more than one kind of evidence. Comparative anatomy, physiology, behaviour and evolutionary history all contribute to our understanding of living organisms. Long before researchers could measure hormones, sequence DNA or conduct controlled feeding trials, they understood that structure and function were connected because the body itself demonstrated that connection.

That doesn't mean anatomy answers every question. It doesn't tell us exactly how often a dog's stomach should expand or precisely how every individual dog will respond to every environment. Biology is rarely that simple. What anatomy does provide is a reference point. It tells us what kind of animal we are dealing with before we begin deciding how best to care for it. To me, that matters because if our starting point is wrong, there is a good chance many of the conclusions that follow will also drift away from the biology of the species.

This is why I find it difficult when conversations begin and end with nutrients. Nutrients matter because life depends upon them, but nutrients do not explain why the dog possesses the body that it does. They tell us what enters the system. They do not explain the system itself. Understanding that difference has probably been the single biggest shift in my own thinking because it changed feeding from being a mathematical exercise into something much broader. Feeding stopped being about filling nutritional requirements alone and became one expression of an entire biological system that had been shaped over thousands of generations.

Once I began looking at the dog this way, I found it increasingly difficult to separate one part of its life from another. Feeding no longer seemed like an isolated decision because it was connected to behaviour. Behaviour was connected to movement. Movement was connected to physiology. Physiology was connected to the nervous system. The more I followed each thread, the more they all led back to the same place. The dog had never evolved as a collection of independent functions. It had evolved as a complete biological system where every part influenced every other part.

That way of thinking also changed how I understood welfare. Welfare was no longer something I measured only by the absence of disease or by whether an animal appeared happy. Those things certainly matter, but they tell only part of the story. I began to see welfare as the opportunity for an animal to express the biological systems that shaped it. The more those systems can function as they were designed to function, the more closely the life of that animal reflects the biology that made it what it is.

I don't mean that every dog should live as a wolf. That would be neither practical nor desirable. Domestication has changed the relationship between dogs and humans forever, and many of those changes have benefited both species. Dogs live longer, receive medical care and share our homes in ways their ancestors never could. None of that is in question. What interests me is something much simpler. Domestication changed the dog's environment far more than it changed the dog itself. The body that walks through our front door each evening still carries the history of the environment that shaped it, even though the environment around it has changed dramatically.

I think this is where many conversations become unnecessarily divided. One side argues that dogs have adapted, while the other argues that they are still wolves. I don't find either position particularly helpful because both reduce a far more complex biological story into a slogan. Dogs have undoubtedly adapted to living alongside humans, but adaptation is not the same as redesign. An animal can adapt to a new environment while still carrying the anatomy, physiology and behavioural systems that evolved under very different conditions. In many ways, that is exactly what the domestic dog represents.

Once you accept that possibility, a different question naturally follows. If the biology remains largely intact but the environment changes, what effect does that have on the animal? I don't ask that question because I already believe I know every answer. I ask it because I don't think it can be ignored. Every change we make to an animal's environment has the potential to influence the biological systems that evolved within a different one. Sometimes those changes are beneficial. Sometimes they are neutral. Sometimes they may carry consequences that we do not yet fully understand. The important point is not that every modern practice is wrong. The important point is that biology should remain the reference point against which those practices are judged.

This is one of the reasons I struggle with the idea that survival alone is evidence that we have met an animal's needs. Animals are remarkably adaptable. They survive in environments that would have been unimaginable to their ancestors. They tolerate changes that allow them to continue reproducing and living alongside us. Survival, however, is a very different question from appropriate function. A dog can survive without opportunities to run, yet we still recognise movement as important. A dog can survive without using its nose, yet scent work is now widely recognised as enriching because it allows the dog to express one of its most developed senses. We already accept that many biological systems deserve opportunities to function even when survival no longer depends upon them.

To me, feeding belongs within that same conversation.

I don't see feeding simply as the delivery of nutrients because the act of feeding has always involved far more than nutrient intake. Long before a meal reached the stomach, the dog was searching, investigating, pursuing, manipulating, gripping, tearing and chewing. Each stage involved different parts of the body working together. Muscles were engaged. The nervous system responded. Hormones changed. Digestion was prepared before food had even been swallowed. None of those processes existed because evolution was trying to create an efficient way to deliver protein or calcium. They existed because feeding was never just about nutrients. Feeding was one expression of a much larger biological system.

That is why I believe we should be cautious whenever we reduce complex biological systems to a single outcome. If the only question we ask is whether a food supplies adequate nutrients, we may answer that question very well while overlooking many others that are equally important. We may satisfy the chemistry of feeding without fully considering the biology of feeding. For me, that distinction sits at the heart of everything I do because it changes not only how I think about food, but how I think about the dog itself.

This way of thinking eventually led me to a conclusion that I hadn't expected. The discussion was never really about raw food or kibble. It was never about one ingredient being better than another, nor was it about trying to recreate the life of a wolf in the Australian bush. Those debates seemed to miss the bigger picture because they were arguing over solutions before agreeing on the question. Once biology became my starting point, I found myself asking something much simpler. Does the way we care for dogs today allow the biological systems that shaped them to continue functioning in a meaningful way?

I don't think there is a single answer because no biological system exists in isolation. Welfare is made up of countless interactions that influence one another throughout the animal's life. A dog needs opportunities to move because movement is part of its biology. A dog benefits from using its nose because its sense of smell is not an accidental feature but one of the defining characteristics of the species. We recognise the value of play, exploration, social interaction and mental stimulation because they allow different parts of the animal to function as they evolved to function. Very few people argue that enrichment is unnecessary simply because a dog can survive without it. We understand that survival and fulfilment are not the same thing.

When I look at a dog's mouth, I don't just see a place where food enters the body. I see a structure that evolved to grip, tear and crush. When I look at the stomach, I don't simply see an organ that digests food. I see an organ capable of expanding dramatically because the ecology that shaped the dog did not provide predictable meals every morning and evening. When I look at the digestive system, I don't just see nutrient absorption. I see a body that carries the history of a predator whose relationship with food involved searching, capturing, consuming, resting and fasting before the cycle began again.

None of that proves that every modern dog must live exactly as its ancestors did. That is not the point I am making. The point is that these structures exist for a reason, and I believe that reason deserves our respect. Evolution is an expensive process. It does not preserve complex anatomy without consequence. Every structure that remains has survived because, at some point in the history of the species, it contributed to the success of the whole animal. That does not tell us everything, but it gives us a reference point from which to begin.

This is why I often find myself thinking about periodontal disease. Modern veterinary medicine has become exceptionally good at treating it, yet it remains one of the most common diseases seen in companion dogs. We have accepted dental disease as something almost inevitable, particularly as dogs grow older, but I sometimes wonder whether that acceptance has stopped us asking a more important question. If the mouth evolved as part of a feeding system that involved gripping, tearing and crushing prey, what happens when those functions largely disappear from the lives of many dogs? I cannot tell you that this is the only reason periodontal disease is so common because biology is rarely explained by a single cause. Genetics, skull shape, breeding, age and many other factors all play their part. What I can say is that I find it difficult to ignore the possibility that changing the way a biological system functions may also change the health of that system.

The same thought extends beyond the mouth. I think about the stomach, not because I believe every dog should gorge itself, but because the stomach itself tells a story. Its ability to expand is not an accident. It reflects an ecological pattern that shaped the species over countless generations. I cannot tell you exactly how often that capacity should be used in the life of a domestic dog because I don't think anyone honestly knows. What I do think is that the existence of that anatomy invites us to ask why it evolved and whether completely ignoring its biological role is as insignificant as we often assume. Those are not questions that reject science. They are questions that arise because biology encourages us to think about function as well as structure.

Perhaps this is where my thinking differs most from the modern conversation. I don't begin by asking whether a food meets nutritional standards. I begin by asking whether the feeding experience makes sense for the animal receiving it. Nutrition still matters because every living thing depends upon nutrients, but nutrition sits within a much larger biological picture. The chemistry of feeding cannot be separated from the behaviour of feeding, just as behaviour cannot be separated from anatomy, and anatomy cannot be separated from the evolutionary history that produced it.

That is why I don't see my role as telling people what to feed. My responsibility is to help owners understand the animal standing in front of them. Once that understanding begins to develop, feeding becomes less about choosing sides and more about making decisions that respect the biology of the dog. Different owners will arrive at different solutions depending on their circumstances, but I hope they arrive there having first understood the organism they are caring for rather than beginning with a product, a trend or a feeding philosophy.

For me, that has always been the goal. Not to win debates about diets, but to encourage a different way of thinking. If we begin with the dog instead of the food, I believe we give ourselves the best chance of making decisions that genuinely serve the animal rather than simply satisfying our own assumptions.

Everything I have written here comes back to one simple belief. The better we understand the animal, the better our decisions become. That applies to feeding, but it also applies to every other aspect of a dog's life. Exercise makes more sense when we understand movement. Enrichment makes more sense when we understand behaviour. Rest makes more sense when we understand physiology. Feeding makes more sense when we understand the biological systems that evolved long before the first bag of dog food was ever produced. Every decision becomes easier because it is no longer built upon opinion alone. It is built upon the animal itself.

I don't expect everyone to reach the same conclusions that I have, nor do I think they should. Biology is complex, and every dog lives within circumstances that are unique to its owner, its family and its environment. There will always be compromises because none of us can recreate the world that shaped the domestic dog, and I don't believe that should be our goal. What I do hope is that we become more thoughtful about the choices we make. If we understand why a structure exists, why a behaviour remains and why a physiological process developed in the first place, we are in a much better position to decide how closely our modern lives should work with that biology rather than around it.

For a long time I believed that helping dogs meant finding better diets. I still believe food matters enormously, but I no longer think it is the place where the conversation should begin. Before we ask what belongs in the bowl, we should understand the animal that will eat from it. Before we argue over nutrients, we should understand the body that will use them. Before we debate feeding methods, we should understand the biological system those methods are trying to support. Once that foundation is in place, nutrition finds its proper place. It becomes one important part of a much larger picture instead of the picture itself.

That way of thinking is the reason Madra Pet Wellness exists. My consultations are not designed to tell owners that there is only one correct way to care for a dog. They are designed to help people see their dogs differently. I want owners to leave with a deeper understanding of the remarkable animal sharing their home because I believe that understanding changes everything that follows. It changes how we think about feeding. It changes how we think about behaviour. It changes how we think about enrichment, exercise, rest and welfare. Most importantly, it changes the questions we ask before making decisions on behalf of an animal that cannot make those decisions for itself. 

If there is one message I hope readers take away from this essay, it is not that they should feed a particular diet or adopt a particular philosophy. It is that the dog standing in front of them is not a collection of independent parts waiting to be managed. It is a complete biological system shaped by millions of years of evolution, carrying within its anatomy, physiology and behaviour the history of the world that created it. The more carefully we learn to read that history, the better equipped we become to care for the animal as a whole.

Perhaps that is where animal care has always needed to begin. Not with the food bowl, the latest research paper or the newest product on the shelf, but with the dog itself. Everything else is an intervention. The dog is the foundation. If we lose sight of that, we risk building our decisions on answers before we have fully understood the question. If we begin with the animal instead, every decision that follows has the opportunity to become a little more thoughtful, a little more respectful and a little closer to the biology that made the dog what it is.