Research suggests that humans have been splitting themselves into dog or cat people since the Stone Age. The dog–cat dichotomy, while barely based in biology, feels as true as the difference between night and day. In dogs, we see hunters, workers, friends and sycophants, creatures that can be read as loyal, industrious or needy. Cats, slinking out of back doors, are seen as mysterious and artful, symbols of superstition, deceit and the divine.

Primed for symbolism and perennially at our side, it is no wonder that cats and dogs prowl art history. During the Renaissance, the presence of a dog in a work of art denoted fidelity and loyalty while a cat might signal deceit. Despite this, the echelons of art are littered with cat people; as Leonard da Vinci once remarked, “Even the smallest feline is a masterpiece.” In Australia, Charles Blackman was modernism's preeminent cat person, seeing the feline as a symbol for his own experiences of youth and loneliness.

If the cat is read as feminine, the dog is masculine – a social construct that Adam Cullen takes up his work. The canines that materialise under his hand are tough little fighters or larrikins, more akin to Ned Kelly than Snoopy. Rather than emphasise their domestication, Cullen reminds us that dogs are animals; you can civilise the man all you want, but deep down he’s still a beast.

It’s hard not to personify a pet. What is it if not love when a cat crooks into your arm, purring at your presence? When they quiver with glee at our arrival, how can we deny the connection we harbour with dogs? Whether a cat or a dog person, we ought to concur that they are art.