11/04/2025
Every Age Has Its Wheat
We like to believe progress is always forward, that the struggles we face today are signs of moral decay rather than growing pains. But history rarely tells that story. Yuval Harari once wrote that it wasn’t humans who domesticated wheat, but wheat that domesticated us. A quiet reminder that every leap forward binds us to something new before we understand what we’ve gained or lost.
This reflection is the first thread in a larger conversation I’m exploring for the next blog post: the idea that our dogs may be living through their own version of that same transition.
When Harari wrote that we were domesticated by wheat, he was pointing to something important to notice. It fed us, yes, but it also confined us. We traded the flexibility of hunter-gatherer life for the predictability of agriculture, and for generations, people suffered because of it. Poor nutrition, harder labor, shorter lives, the price of progress was paid in the bodies of those who never reaped its long term benefits.
We like to think we’ve outgrown that kind of bargain, but maybe we haven’t. Every generation builds something it doesn’t yet understand. Our ancestors planted wheat; we’re planting code.
Artificial intelligence, like agriculture, will probably feed the world in ways we can’t yet imagine, but for many living through the transition, it won’t feel like abundance. It will feel like loss.
Because evolution is slow, and culture is fast.
The tools we create evolve faster than our nervous systems or ethics can keep pace.
And just like the early farmers, we’ll adjust eventually, but not before we mistake disruption for decline, and confusion for chaos whether or not it ends up being justifiaby so.
It’s not so different for the dogs living in our homes, though it’s unclear whether they’re adapting to the changes we’ve built, or slowly being left behind by them.
Our cities are denser than ever, our schedules fuller, and the cost of care higher than many can manage.
Dogs that once roamed fields and slept near the hearth now spend long days alone in apartments, their instincts compressed into the margins of human life.
More of them wait in shelters than find homes, and those that do often struggle to navigate a world that keeps shifting under their paws, flooded with noise, confinement, and contradiction.
Maybe this is adaptation in progress.
Or maybe it’s the beginning of another quiet disappearance, not through malice, but through mismatch.
Either way, it deserves our attention.
Because evolution doesn’t ask who’s ready; it simply moves on.
And if we fail to notice the widening gap between what dogs were made for and what we’ve made of them, we may one day realize that kindness wasn’t what ruined them, indifference was.
Maybe we are not going to be replaced by machines, and maybe dogs are not being ruined by softness.
We’re all just being asked to evolve again, to find our footing in a world our descendants may one day call obvious.