Ridiculous in the City

I hate dogs. I hate dog people and dog parks. I hate dog poop and dog paraphernalia. I hate dog hair on my clothes. I hate dog breath in my face and I hate the unmistakable smell of wet dog. I hate seeing a dog pee on the sidewalk and watching it run down the concrete to the curb, bathing the available walking space in a delightful urine smell that is even more intoxicating on a lovely hot summer day. And I hate being forced to see a presumably otherwise intelligent human being bend over and pick up a steaming pile of poop while saying something like, “Good job, bud. Who knows how to potty?!”

Perhaps my most fervent hatred is that of the “urban dog lifestyle” itself. A universe so ridiculous that it fuels, among other things, a comical, luxury dog products industry while at the same time permeating the streets and minds of New York City, an otherwise idyllic utopia of awesomeness.

I hate dog germs. I have no idea why a sane person who values any level of hygiene would want to share a New York City apartment with something that walks around with its nose on the street and can’t use a flushing toilet. But is happy to drink from one in a heartwarming twist. I hate dog owners who seemingly don’t realize that you just almost tripped over their dog, a move that would have rendered you orthopedically challenged and their beloved pooch strangled—or worse, maimed. The only maiming I like is that of the Auntie Mame variety, which is to say none at all.

I hate watching people fawn over their dogs and slip into baby talk. “Who’s the sweetest? Who’s the best? You are, my love, you are.” It’s not a baby, it’s a dog. Repeat: it’s a d-o-g. Got it, dogg? I hate walking by a dog park, a valuable piece of scarce NYC open space done over in sand and gravel to accommodate hoards of local dogs, all barking and jerking and spreading their aforementioned dog germs (that’s not all that’s being spread… hey!). I hate businesses that leave out water bowls and dog treats—not that I begrudge a dog proper hydration (Dear ASPCA, please don’t send Sarah McLaughlin to my door)—so as to encourage dog owners to come in, bring their pooches and mix with the rest of us.

Reminds me of a sixth grade “mixer” where there were also plenty of dogs, those of the two legged variety, decked out in their finest wanna-be Marithe + Francois Girbaud jeans, undulating erratically to Tony Toni Toné, a whiff of Cool Water sailing above the crowd, my bangs shellacked with hairspray.

God, I love Tony Toni Toné.

Perhaps the only thing remotely related to dog ownership that I do like is dog walkers. Give it up for the dog walkers of NYC who have found gainful employment in the most essential of tasks. Way to make those ends in a cash-heavy, high-demand business that will literally never evaporate thanks to the busy schedules and general ridiculousness of your fellow New Yorkers.

With all this distaste for dogs and, more significantly, dog owners in my brain, I must have been on something when, last month, I too became a dog owner. Feel free to choke on your vegan sprouted wrap right about now.

Yes, you read that right. I, naysayer extraordinaire of all things NYC dog and all things NYC dog culture, have become the responsible party for a puppy. And in exactly one month, I have become a complete asshole. Actually, it only took about a week.

This dog is different, I told myself. He’s special. He’s a dog for a non-dog person. Hell, he’s practically a human. He’s sweet, intelligent, obscenely attractive; a boss, a champ, likeable to even the most negative Ned (i.e., me). He’ll be nothing like those irritating dogs I see, and I will be nothing like those yutzo humans I see. Nothing.

“Way to potty, buds. Way to potty,” I heard myself saying as if in a dream, my tone achingly enthusiastic. It was 11:30 p.m. I was a shell of my former self. I may have been wearing pajamas, I may have been naked; everything was blurry. The sights and sounds of NYC occurred around me, but nothing was clear anymore. I no longer knew which one of us was the dog and which one of us was the human. I had walked the block so many times that I now knew there were fifty-seven squares of sidewalk under foot. My singular focus was thus: potty.

And when that potty finally happened, I could feel myself tearing up. He had done it. He was a genius, a testament to the very fundamentals of potty training. I was elated as I scooped up that fresh pile of crap. It could only have been better if Barack Obama was with me. Just me, Barry, my new number one guy and a bag of warm poop. That’s bliss, America.

In the days and weeks since that first break through, I have become an authority on the fabrication of poop bags and poop bag holders—a necessity sold to me by my luxury dog product purveyor of choice. I now know the finer points of dog treats that clean teeth and provide essential nutrients to your growing pup. I am a bitter apple spray addict. I carry a water bottle for him to drink out of, which he does so well I’m hoping Fiji will sponsor him. I am well versed in the dogs of the neighborhood and which ones are and are not “appropriate” for mixing with my guy. “Butter,” the weiner dog down the block = appropriate. The Pomeranian up the street who tried to mount my dog = not appropriate. His owner who rides around with the dog on a motorized scooter and told me that, like my dog, she too was an Aquarius = not appropriate.

My plans are now made around his schedule. His pooping schedule that is. He also eats, plays and sleeps, but everything takes a back seat to “production,” as it were. And what a production it is. Congratulations to me. I am now closely monitoring the bowel movements of two living things. I’d like to thank the Academy.

Germs? I would stack his cleanliness up against that of most people. Dog breath? Please, he’s fresh as a daisy. Is that a dog bowl outside the coffee shop? Thank god, my guy needs some water. Dog parks? Well, he does need to socialize. Pick up his poop while lavishing enthusiastic praise? But of course. How else will he learn the keys to success? Watch his puddle of urine pollute the sidewalk? Oh how he loves his favorite spot.

So yeah, I’m now that yutzo.

But before I go off the deep end entirely, I will look down at the dog hair that is covering my pants and do my best to remember that he is my dog, not my child. And I am the human, not the dog. Although, I too know how to potty and goddamn it if I couldn’t use some praise once in a while.

Way to potty, Ridiculous. Way to potty.