Where Are All the Dogs? A Pet-Lover’s Take on ‘Wuthering Heights’ (2026)

It’s not unusual for a new adaptation of 'Wuthering Heights' to divide opinion. It’s a story people feel strongly about, partly because it resists being softened. It’s also a story that has weathered the passage of time and continues to be devoured by a wide range of audiences year after year. Whether we see parts of ourselves in the raw characters penned on paper or find ourselves fascinated by the feral nature of human relationships, 'Wuthering Heights' is a novel with a passionate and protective audience. I, myself, am still enamoured by it in the same way I was when I read it at age fourteen. It’s harsh, strange, and often uncomfortable in ways that don’t easily translate to the silver screen.

The 2026 film adaptation, directed by Emerald Fennell and starring Jacob Elordi and Margot Robbie, leans into that discomfort in its own way. It’s stylised, deliberate, and far more controlled than the novel it’s based on. Most of the conversation and criticism so far has focused on its more obvious creative choices, but there’s a quieter shift running underneath it, one that stands out more if you’re used to noticing and appreciating animals in stories. For fans of the original novel, it’s undeniable that this is a story closely tied to animal presence; therefore, it feels like a notable absence, rather than a faithful inclusion.

In the original novel, dogs are not incidental. Emily Brontë doesn’t use them as background texture or for domestic comfort, as Fennell does with Isabella’s adorable powder puff Pomeranian. They contribute to the atmosphere in a way that feels almost structural. From Lockwood’s uneasy introduction at the house to the more violent undercurrents later on, animals help define Wuthering Heights as a place that is unwelcoming, volatile, and out of control. The behaviour of the dogs mirrors that of the people; both are reactive, territorial, and, at times, deliberately cruel.

That interplay matters because it grounds the emotional intensity of the story in something physical. The world Brontë builds isn’t just psychologically unstable; it feels that way in a tangible sense. You can hear it, see it, and, through the presence of animals, almost anticipate it. The 2026 film shifts that balance. In Fennell’s 'Wuthering Heights', the environment feels less alive in that feral, unpredictable way. The focus is drawn inward, towards the relationships themselves and the dynamics that shape them. Control, obsession, and power are still very much present, but they are expressed through people rather than through the wider world around them. The sets are theatrical and absurd, but the only canine we’re introduced to is Isabella’s dog, who, thankfully for dog lovers around the world, faces a kinder fate than Fanny, who suffers at the sadistic hands of Heathcliff in Brontë’s original novel.

That shift becomes particularly clear in the portrayal of Isabella herself. In the novel, her storyline is deeply uncomfortable, shaped by manipulation, cruelty and abuse. In this adaptation, that discomfort is pushed into something more explicitly symbolic and perhaps too ‘on the nose’. In an iconic scene easily identified by any modern cinemagoer, there is a moment where she is made to behave like a dog - collared, controlled, and stripped of autonomy in a way that reframes the 'animal' element of the story as something internal rather than external. Though it’s impossible to ignore her overdramatic wink to Nelly towards the end of the scene, is this showing her consent and an attempt at reclamation instead of humiliation? Whatever the answer, Fennell’s direction is not subtle, nor is it meant to be. The film takes what was once expressed through the treatment of animals and redirects it entirely onto human bodies and relationships. The result is a different kind of unease. Instead of witnessing cruelty reflected through animals, you see it enacted more directly, without that layer of separation.

From a modern filmmaking perspective, that choice is understandable. Audiences are far less tolerant of animal harm on screen, even when it serves a narrative purpose. Removing most animal presence avoids that issue while still allowing the film to explore the same themes. But it also changes the texture of the story in ways that are harder to quantify.

Without a strong animal presence, the world of 'Wuthering Heights' becomes more contained. In the novel, there is always a sense that the environment itself is complicit in the chaos. The weather, the landscape, and the animals all contribute to a feeling that things are slightly beyond anyone’s control. In the film, that chaos feels curated. It’s still there, but it is shaped, framed, and directed with intent.

For pet owners and lovers, this difference is particularly noticeable because animals often act as emotional cues. A dog’s behaviour can signal tension before a character speaks. It can heighten unease or offer relief. Brontë uses that instinct deliberately, allowing animals to reinforce what the reader is already beginning to suspect. When that layer is reduced, the story relies more heavily on dialogue and performance to carry the same weight. The meaning is still there, but it lands differently. It feels less instinctive and more interpretive. That’s not necessarily a flaw, but it does point to a broader shift in how the story is being told. This adaptation doesn’t seem particularly interested in recreating the novel's world in a literal sense, as is quite obvious from the first ten minutes of the film. Instead, it isolates certain themes and amplifies them, reshaping the narrative around what feels most relevant or striking to a modern audience.

In that context, the reduced role of dogs arguably makes a certain kind of sense. The film isn’t trying to immerse you in a fully realised environment; it’s guiding you through a more subversive and obvious version of events, where every element is deliberate and considered. Even the discomfort feels designed - all you need to do is take a look at the suffocating fireplace in Edgar Linton’s home, bursting with crawling porcelain hands or Cathy’s bedroom, adorned in wall coverings that mimic her own skin, veins and imperfections too. Still, it leaves an open question about what is lost in the process. In the novel, the presence of animals contributes to a sense of unpredictability that is difficult to replicate through human behaviour alone. There is something inherently unsettling about a space where even the dogs feel hostile, where the natural world reflects and reinforces human cruelty.

By contrast, the 2026 film offers a more self-contained experience. The tension is sharper in some ways, but it is also more contained. The absence, or near absence, of dogs removes a layer of instinctive reaction, replacing it with something more stylised. For viewers who come to 'Wuthering Heights' expecting a faithful recreation of its atmosphere, that change may feel significant and, in fear of sounding dramatic, upsetting. For others, it may simply read as part of a broader reinterpretation, one that prioritises symbolism and control over environmental realism. Either way, it’s a reminder that adaptations are defined as much by what they leave out as by what they include.

In this case, and perhaps in Fennell’s defence, there is the inclusion of one very adorable dog, but it doesn’t carry the same weight as it should. I fear she risks being forgotten, and therefore, the loss of canine presence is felt throughout the film to loyal readers and Brontë worshippers. Instead, the role animals once played has been absorbed into the human characters themselves, most notably in moments like Isabella’s submission to Heathcliff, where the symbolism is no longer implied but made explicit. It’s a different approach to the same material, one that reshapes the story's feel at a fundamental level. And for anyone used to noticing the presence of animals in storytelling, it’s a change that’s difficult to ignore.