Old dogs and new disorders
If you ever doubted that the pet industry had become a mirror of modern human absurdity, the series Old Dog, New Tricks [originally called Animal] will reassure you that you are spot on.
The Spanish comedy, starring the irresistible curmudgeon Luis Zahera (the adorable but morally ambiguous police officer of Wrong Side of The Tracks), takes place in that soft spot between satire and sincerity. It is about a grumpy farm veterinarian forced by circumstances to take a job at a big-box pet store, treating neurotic animals and their even more neurotic owners. But really, it’s about us humans who’ve turned our pets into extensions of our identities, our anxieties, and our bank accounts. Nothing wrong with it, if it makes you happy. Please don’t get me wrong, I have been there and done that, I have had, loved and pampered pets too, and probably to that eccentric level, and hence the series comes across as a revelation.
Zahera, with his mop of mad curls, unshaven weather-beaten face and incredible gift for weary disdain, is the perfect mirror-holder. Most actors play charm. Some actors play exhaustion and they do that with an uncanny gift that they have for doing so. Zahera plays exhaustion — the kind that comes from watching society lose its mind one fluffy dog at a time. Other actors that I have seen do it equally well are Jack Klugman in Odd Couple, Irrfaan Khan, Nawazuddin Siddiqui, Manoj Bajpai, Nasiruddin Shah, Tom Hanks and I love them for that particular shine.
As Antón, a veterinarian who’d rather be out in the Galician countryside birthing calves than in a fluorescent-lit pet clinic diagnosing depression in goldfish, Zahera gives a masterclass in lovable grumpiness. His face, halfway between disbelief and disapproval, tells you everything about his inner life: he’s a man who’s seen enough nonsense for one lifetime.
One episode features a woman who brings her pug in for “aura realignment.” Another insists her hamster’s insomnia must be due to screen addiction. When a customer complains that his dog “picks up the wrong leg” when he pees, Antón doesn’t roll his eyes — he sighs, as if inhaling the collective madness of a civilisation that’s decided its pets need therapy. A bunny whose owner laments that it’s “lost interest in going to the movies”? Antón barely looks up from his clipboard. His dry response — telling the woman she should probably “find a man for herself”— lands like an accidental sermon. When his assistant Uxía (played with radiant charm by Lucía Caraballo) calls the owners “the pets’ parents,” Antón visibly flinches.
When Antón meets a pet owner explaining his or her pet’s affliction, he looks around in horror, and after having learnt that his honesty will only earn him a red, angry-face emoji at the store’s feedback terminal, he puts on his most pleasant face and gives them exactly what they want, whether his sensibilities agree with it or not. After all, according to store policy, the customer is always right!
Luis Zahera gives the kind of performance that elevates everything around him. He turns exasperation into art, sarcasm into empathy, and the everyday into something quietly profound.
And yet, there’s affection under the sarcasm. Zahera never lets Antón become bitter. He’s not cruel, just blatantly honest — something that’s become increasingly radical in a world where people talk to their pets like life coaches and introduce themselves as “dog moms” and “cat dads.”
Lucía Caraballo, as Anton’s niece Uxía, provides a bright counterbalance. Her youthful optimism softens Antón’s cynicism, and together they build the emotional core of the series. Their chemistry carries the story even when the script wobbles.
And Galicia with its misty hills and rain-soaked barns is in itself is a quiet character — all beautifully shot. Its pacing is deliberate, its tone affectionate. The show’s rhythm mirrors rural life — steady, unhurried, occasionally interrupted by bursts of absurdity. There are moments that stretch too long or lean on clichés, but they’re forgivable because Zahera’s performance anchors everything.
It would have been easy for Old Dog, New Tricks to fall into one of the two cultural pits so many modern shows dig for themselves: “Boomers are bad” or “Gen Z are fragile.” But the series doesn’t take that bait. Instead, it makes both sides ridiculous and redeemable. The older vet who thinks the world’s gone soft learns that empathy isn’t the same as foolishness.
The younger assistant who speaks in hashtags and treats pets like children learns that caring doesn’t always mean coddling. They’re both right, and both wrong — a balance few comedies manage without sounding smug. And yet, for all its satire, the show never ridicules the love people feel for their animals — it just gently mocks the way capitalism packages that love, feeds it back to us, and charges for the leash.
There’s no sermon here, no attempt to “fix” society. It’s light-hearted, entertaining content to find humour in the daily absurdities of human-pet relationships, all while giving us gorgeous Galician landscapes and a quirky soundtrack that enhances the punch.
However, this is the world we live in. The global pet industry, once about basic care and companionship, has ballooned into a billion-dollar behemoth that sells not just products, but identities. Our dogs now have treadmills, wardrobes, and therapists. Our cats have probiotics and wellness retreats. Did you know that Princess Cleopatra — a real-life Staffordshire bull terrier — enjoys massages, manicures, and rides in a pram, her owner having spent over £40,000 on her lifestyle. We have humanised pets so much that we give them birthdays, wardrobes, spa days, and spiritual crises.
This is the ecosystem where Anton exists in. Behind every joke about a bunny that’s “emotionally unavailable,” there’s a truth about how humans project their own mental clutter onto their pets. The anxious owner who is sure her dog “looks at her funny” isn’t crazy — she’s just seeing her reflection in a very patient animal.
This, the series suggests, is where we are as a species: incapable of dealing with our own emotions, we’ve outsourced them to our pets. We project our guilt, our stress, our loneliness onto them, interpreting every bark or purr as a cry for therapy. So the show is not really about animals at all. It’s about humans, fumbling through the loneliness of the modern world and finding solace in creatures who can’t talk back.
Our relationship with animals has evolved from necessity to novelty. Once, animals were partners in survival. A dog guarded the farm, a cow gave milk, a cat kept the mice away. Now, they’re emotional service providers and social media content. The pet industry hasn’t just followed this shift — it’s monetised it, brilliantly.
Our modern attitudes towards pets are not just vanity — it’s displacement. Psychologists have long observed that pet owners project their emotional states onto their animals. An anxious person believes their dog is anxious. A lonely person imagines their cat misses them. A guilty person worries their parrot resents being caged. It’s empathy gone rogue — a human need for connection refracted through the soft eyes of a creature that can’t answer back.
In that sense, Old Dog, New Tricks becomes more than a comedy. It’s an accidental anthropology lesson on 21st-century loneliness. By the final episodes, Antón’s arc becomes surprisingly tender. His gruffness softens not because he learns to “love small dogs,” but because he learns to see the people behind them. Their eccentricities — the bunny lady, the anxious dog owner, the influencer vet — are all coping mechanisms. He realises that in a world increasingly disconnected, pets have become our emotional scaffolding. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe it’s even necessary.
The series may graphically portray veterinary procedures on farm animals, but it’s less Dr Dolittle and more about people — lonely, loving, ridiculous people — trying to do their best in a world where affection is often misplaced but still genuine.
Because maybe we’re all just a little like the animals we adore — confused, loyal, hungry for connection, and hoping someone like Antón will look us in the eye and say what we most need to hear: “You’re fine. You just need a walk.”