What Gear Do You Need to Be a Puppy?

(Spoiler Alert: None)

One of the most common questions I hear, especially from new or curious pups, is:
“Besides a hood, what puppy gear do I need to be a pup?”

I understand why people ask. Most of what people see about pups on social media are neoprene hoods, bodysuits, custom collars, tails, and carefully staged photos. It can start to feel like there’s a dress code — or worse, a price of admission.

But here’s the honest answer:

You don’t need any gear to be a pup.

Being a pup doesn’t start with a purchase. It starts with permission. Permission to learn, to grow, and to explore a side of yourself that society hasn’t always encouraged you to show. Puppy play comes from the heart, not a shopping list. It isn’t about who has the best gear or the cleanest aesthetic. It’s something you enter into — and when you do, you bring your whole self with you.

When I first got into pup play, I didn’t have a hood or a custom collar. I had a bandana and a pair of boots. That was it. And somehow, it was enough.

The bandana became my signal. When it was on, I began to shift. It marked the moment where I could set human expectations down and let something softer take their place. The boots grounded me — not visually, but physically — especially on concrete floors and long club nights. Without realizing it at the time, I was creating a ritual.

That ritual grew as I did. Over time, I realized that putting on pup gear — even simple pieces — functions almost like a form of drag for me. Not drag as performance for others, but drag as transformation for myself. Each piece I put on helps me disconnect from human problems and reconnect with my playful Ruff self. A collar tells my body it can soften. A hood quiets the constant hum of responsibility. Kneepads or boots remind me I don’t have to be upright and productive to be worthy.

Just like drag, pup gear isn’t about hiding who I am — it’s about revealing a truth that doesn’t always get space to exist. The ritual of gearing up creates a bridge between worlds. It gives my nervous system a clear, compassionate signal: you’re allowed to be different now. You’re allowed to play. You’re allowed to let go.

And that’s why gear can feel so meaningful for some pups. It isn’t about the object itself. It’s about intention. Repetition. Choice. The act of saying, again and again, “this is time I get to exist differently.” Over time, that ritual can become grounding, comforting, and deeply healing.

But none of that makes gear mandatory.

At its core, puppy play is still about playful energy, curiosity, presence, and letting your body settle into something simpler and more honest. None of that requires money. None of that requires approval. And it definitely doesn’t require a uniform.

If you do want gear, you don’t have to start at a fetish shop or spend a fortune. Some of the most accessible pup gear can be found in everyday places. Collars, bandanas, and tags are often available at local pet stores or department stores, and a simple nylon or leather collar can be just as grounding as a custom piece.

Human-safe chew toys are also easier to find than people think — just make sure anything you put in your mouth is explicitly labeled safe for human use and appropriate for your body.

As you grow, you may decide to invest in neoprene hoods, paw mitts, harnesses, or suits — and that’s wonderful. There are incredible makers out there. But there are also low-cost ways to explore. Online retailers can help you experiment, and local kink communities often host gear swaps where gently used high-end pieces can be found for a fraction of the cost.

Starting small isn’t a failure. It’s often a gift.

It gives you space to explore without pressure. Without debt. Without feeling like you need to perform a version of puppy that doesn’t belong to you. Some pups eventually build a collection. Others stay minimal forever. Both paths are valid.

As for how you present yourself, there’s no single right way. Some pups prefer to play nude. Others enjoy creating a look. That look can be as simple as a favorite T-shirt or as layered as a full gear setup. Ruff, for example, loves high-visibility gear — but that’s expression, not obligation. Comfortable shoes and kneepads can be helpful, but again, none of it is necessary.

You don’t need gear to be a pup.
You don’t need to look like anyone else.
You don’t need to earn your place.

If you feel the pull toward play, curiosity, and presence — you’re already doing it right.

Puppy play saved me not because of what I wore, but because it gave me permission to be present, playful, and real.

That ritual — the act of choosing to step into puppy, again and again — is also why I believe visibility matters, and why leadership in our community doesn’t have to look loud, rigid, or hierarchical. When we model permission, softness, and care in public, we give others space to find their own way in. Leadership, to me, is about holding that door open. It’s about showing that puppy play isn’t something you earn, perform, or perfect — it’s something you’re allowed to inhabit. If I step into visibility, it’s not to be above anyone, but to stand beside them, fully and honestly, as Ruff.

Unapologetically Puppy.