Adopting a dog in Korea as a foreigner? From hilarious potty mishaps to navigating pet stores without speaking Korean, here's what it’s really like to live with a Maltese in Seoul.
I walked into the pet café saying, "I'm just here to look."
Yeah. You already know where this is going.
There he was. A tiny, fluffy cloud with eyes the size of my willpower. A maltese. Sitting in a little pen like he owned the place. The second we locked eyes, I swear he smirked. Thirty minutes later, I was holding adoption paperwork, Googling “how to raise a puppy in Korea” with one hand and cradling my new dog with the other.
I had zero supplies, zero vocabulary, and zero chill.
Here’s what no one tells you: you don't just adopt a dog in Korea—you adopt an entire lifestyle.
The first night, I realized I had no dog bed, no pee pads, not even food. So I dashed to a nearby pet store.
Problem? I had no idea what anything was called in Korean. I stood there for 15 minutes staring at shelves full of unfamiliar labels. Finally, I showed the cashier a picture of a cartoon dog peeing indoors and hoped for the best.
Did it work? Kind of.
I came home with hamster pellets, cat shampoo, and a chew toy shaped like a carrot. He hated all of it. Especially the shampoo. The betrayal in his eyes? Unforgettable.
Training a dog is hard.
Training a dog in a studio apartment in Korea where your neighbor bangs on the wall every time your dog whimpers? That’s war.
Tori (yes, I named him Tori) decided that pee pads were suggestions, not obligations.
He peed next to them.
On them.
Once, even on my charging laptop.
I tried every trick: placing snacks near the pad, fake clapping like the YouTubers said, begging in two languages. Nothing worked. Until one day, I accidentally left K-pop playing in the background. For some reason, he peed on cue during the chorus. From then on, Tori only did his business to BTS. I wish I was kidding.
If you're used to sprawling parks or open fields, get ready for a shock: Seoul walks are strategic.
You avoid bikes, mopeds, and the occasional delivery robot. And everyone and their grandma also has a dog.
One time, a perfectly dressed woman carrying a poodle gave me a judgmental once-over as Tori pooped right in front of a Paris Baguette. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. Her poodle smirked.
Still, there’s something magical about walking a dog through the streets of Korea. You discover tiny alleys filled with hanok rooftops, cafés that allow dogs (some even have menus for them), and strangers who will bend down to say, “귀엽다~” with the most genuine joy.
One word: 미용 (mi-yong = grooming).
I learned it the hard way.
I made a grooming appointment and, in my best broken Korean, asked for “just a trim.” What I meant: round face, floofy ears, cute teddy bear look.
What I got: shaved body, full mane, and a puffball tail.
Tori came out looking like a lion who lost a bet.
He didn’t make eye contact with me for two hours.
I now show pictures. Always.
The first vet visit was like playing charades in a lab coat.
Me: miming sneezing and scratching
Vet: nodding slowly and writing mysterious things in Korean
Tori: eating the vet’s pen
But despite the confusion, the vet staff were kind, gentle, and incredibly thorough. They even gave me a translated pamphlet on vaccines, neutering, and how to register Tori with the Korean government (yes, he has his own chip and ID).
Honestly?
Every ruined pair of socks, every confused vet visit, every pee puddle on my rug—it was all worth it the first time Tori curled up next to me, let out a tiny sigh, and fell asleep on my lap.
I didn’t just adopt a dog.
I adopted a whole new version of myself.
Next Up – Day 19:
Thinking of visiting a Korean traditional market?
Let’s just say I went for side dishes… and came home with a live octopus 🐙 Stay tuned for the most chaotic shopping trip of my life.