Dogs in Vietnam – The Quiet Companions of the Road

A travel story from the streets, beaches and walkways of Côn Đảo

In Côn Đảo, the day begins early. The sun has barely risen above the mountains when the first scooters glide through the streets. And between them – in the shade of food stalls, in front of doorsteps, on the beaches – lie the dogs. Loose, calm, half-awake. Not nervous, not on guard. Simply present.

For a Norwegian, the first thought is: “Who owns it?”

But in Vietnam, the question is a little different: “Who knows it?”

A different relationship – a different language

Where in Norway dogs live on leashes, with microchips, vaccines, rules and long forest walks, dogs in Vietnam live at an entirely different pace. Here they blend into the neighbourhood in their own way.

They sleep on the doorstep.

They eat leftovers an owner has put out.

They follow you for a moment, curious but never intrusive.

They find shade under a parked moped.

They wander freely, like small citizens of the street.

It isn’t a sign of irresponsibility – it’s culture.

Dogs here are not projects or hobbies.

They are part of daily life. Part of the household.

Part of the town.

Free, but not abandoned

It’s easy to see a loose dog in Asia and think it’s abandoned. But in Vietnam, that is rarely true. Most dogs belong to someone, but ownership is softer, less defined, than what we are used to.

A dog comes and goes as it wishes.

It knows which doors offer food.

It knows which sidewalks are safe.

It knows where it belongs.

It’s a kind of free-life – something between a pet and a farm dog.

And the dogs seem to thrive in that freedom.

The Vietnamese dog is a quiet optimist

In Côn Đảo, you notice it even more clearly: the dogs are gentle. They seem almost philosophical as they lie and observe their surroundings, as if they’ve watched tourists come and go for so long that nothing surprises them anymore.

They watch from a distance.

They rarely bark.

They beg very little.

They are comfortable in a pack, yet just as content alone.

And you think:

These are not ownerless dogs.

These are dogs with another way of expressing belonging.

Two countries – two ideas of what a dog should be

In Norway, a dog is a family member – planned, insured, registered, trained, walked at fixed times.

In Vietnam, a dog is more like the friendly neighbourhood child who always runs around: a little free, a little independent, but always close to home.

Neither system is perfect.

Both are shaped by the history and culture they grow out of.

The last evening

On your final evening in Côn Đảo, you walk along the seafront promenade. A brown mixed-breed dog lifts its head from its sleeping spot at the base of a lamppost. It looks at you, yawns, and strolls quietly beside you for a short while. Not to beg. Not to be petted. Just to accompany you a little. As if to show you that this free, gentle life is entirely normal here.

And when it eventually stops and lets you walk on alone, you understand that the dogs of Vietnam belong to something larger than one household.

They belong to the place.

They belong to the rhythm.

They belong to the people.

And you realise that this, too, is part of travelling:

discovering that a dog’s place in the world can be different – and still filled with peace.