The deceased lay wrapped in a cotton blanket, surrounded by white roses and hydrangea, angelic figurines and lit candles and incense. A wall-mounted screen displayed photographs of him. His 71-year-old companion, Kim Seon-ae, convulsed with tears as she bid farewell, caressing his head and face. Next door, young uniformed morticians prepared for his cremation.
The elaborate and emotional ritual was for a white poodle named Dalkong, who was nestled in a willow basket with his eyes still open.
“He was like a virus that infected me with happiness,” said Ms. Kim, who had lived with Dalkong for 13 years until he succumbed to heart disease. “We were family.”
Not long ago, South Korea often made global headlines, and raised the ire of animal rights groups, for its tradition of breeding dogs for meat. But in recent years, people here have gravitated toward pets, especially dogs. They are looking for companionship at a time when more South Koreans are choosing to stay single, childless or both. More than two-fifths of all households in the nation now consist of only one person.
The pandemic also did much to bring pets into homes, as people cooped up indoors adopted dogs and cats from shelters and the streets.
Now, one out of every four families in South Korea has a pet, up from 17 percent in 2010. Most of them are dogs. (The Korean numbers are still low compared with the United States, where about 62 percent of homes have a pet, according to a survey last year by the Pew Research Center.)
“In this age of mistrust and loneliness, dogs show you what unconditional love is,” said Ms. Kim’s 41-year-old daughter, Kim Su-hyeon, who raised two dogs but has no plans for children. “A human child may talk back and rebel, but dogs follow you like you are the center of the universe.”
Kim Kyeong-sook, 63, whose 18-year-old dachshund, Kangyi, was cremated on the same day as Dalkong, agreed. “When I left home, he saw me off at the door until it was closed behind me,” she said. “When I returned, he was always there, going crazy as if I were coming home from war overseas.”
The boom in pet services has changed the country’s urban landscape. Hospitals and shops catering to pets have become ubiquitous, while childbirth clinics have all but disappeared, as South Korea’s birthrate has become the lowest in the world. In parks and neighborhoods, strollers are more often than not carrying dogs. Online shopping malls say they sell more baby carriages for dogs than for babies.
Politically, dogs have led to a rare case of bipartisanship in a country that is increasingly polarized. In January 2024, lawmakers passed a law that banned the country’s centuries-old practice of breeding and butchering dogs for human consumption.
Now, dogs are family members that get splurged on.
Sim Na-jeong says she wears an old, $38 padded jacket but has bought $150 jackets for Liam, a jindo she adopted from a shelter four years ago.
“Liam is like a child to me,” said Ms. Sim, 34, who does not plan to get married or have children. “I love him the way my mom loved me. I eat old food in the refrigerator, saving the freshest chicken breast for Liam.”
Her mother, Park Young-seon, 66, said she felt sad that many young women had chosen not to have babies. But she said she had come to accept Liam as “my grandson.”
On a recent weekend, the mother and daughter joined six other families who took their dogs on a picnic to Mireuksa, a Buddhist temple in central South Korea. So-called temple stays are a way for ordinary people to meditate and enjoy the monastic quiet. Now, some temples encourage families to bring their dogs along. All participants, human and canine, wear gray Buddhist vests and rosaries.
“I feel more attached to my dogs than to my husband,” said Kang Hyeon-ji, 31, who got married last October and was there with her spouse and two snow-white Pomeranians. Her husband, Kim Sang-baek, 32, shrugged with an embarrassed smile.
Seok Jeong-gak, the head monk of the temple, patted her own dog, Hwaeom, as she preached that humans and dogs were just souls wearing different “shells” in this cycle of life, who may switch shells in their next incarnation. As the sermon went on under a large canvas shade in a temple lawn, Liam was busy licking his paw.
The visitors had booked the temple stay through Banlife, a smartphone app that helps people find pet-friendly restaurants, resorts and temples.
“When I started my business in 2019, people doubted that many would take pets on vacation,” said Lee Hyemi, who runs Banlife. “Now there are people who not just walk their dogs but do everything with them.”
Ko Jee-ahn runs Dogkingabout, a “total dog care center” in Seoul that includes day-care specialists, trainers, doctors and groomers.
“People used to treat pet dogs as something they owned and showed off, something they could also discard if they behaved badly,” Ms. Ko said. “Now they treat them like family members. If they turn aggressive, they do not think of replacing them but think of what the problem is and what they can do to fix it.”
The growing industry surrounding pets has an underbelly: In 2023, animal rights activists led the authorities to raid a puppy mill and rescue 1,400 dogs kept there under cruel conditions. Officials found dozens of dog carcasses in freezers.
As shocking as the episode was, the government’s role in rescuing the dogs and finding them shelters also reflected the country’s shifting attitude toward animal rights. At the National Assembly, lawmakers have proposed new legislation that would ban the auctioning of puppies and tighten other regulations for dog breeders.
Elaborate pet funerals like Dalkong’s did not start until around 2017, when Pet Forest, a pet funeral service company, envisioned them as a way to help people deal with their pet-loss syndrome.
“Pet funerals have since become much like human funerals,” said Lee Sangheung, the president of Pet Forest.
Now, there are 74 licensed pet funeral centers across South Korea. Families select coffins and shrouds for their pets.
After cremation, they receive the ashes in a small urn or have them turned into gemlike stones and carry them home. Or they can deposit them in a memorial hall, where they keep their pets’ memory alive with photographs and handwritten notes, pet toys and snacks and flowers. One family had visited their dog’s ashes seven times since the white Maltese “crossed the rainbow bridge,” or died, in 2022, according to the notes they left.
“No matter how old the dog is when it dies, it is still a child to its human family,” said Kim Wonseob, a pet mortician.
