There have been visits of no less than FOUR women clutching teacup dogs to their chests at work today and while I'd totally expect that every other minute if I worked in L.A., it feels awkward and out of place in the valley. Why are you here? And these women always come in wearing low-rider sweats and matching hoodies in bold colors of fuchsia or aqua. Their make-up is usually impeccable and overdone with bangle bracelets and HUGE rings adorning their digits, but their hair is oddly wild and unkempt as if no brushing took place, just a quick pony-tail high on top of their heads. And the dog. The poor, poor dog smooshed up against their left breast. A fixture. An accessory. An accessory constantly smothered with kisses, baby talk, and more smooshing into the boob and all the while this poor pooch gazes intensely at me with big eyes that scream HELP ME! PLEASE! I CAN'T TAKE ANYMORE OF THIS BOOBAGE! And I stand there helpless and sad trying to communicate telepathically that there's really nothing I can do beyond ripping you from her arms and running, which isn't a viable option for me because she paid big bucks for you and I cannot afford to go to jail right now because I stole a $1000 pooch. Check back in a couple of months. She tries, but can't seem to find her checkbook in that loud over-sized bag of hers so she'll set her precious doggie down to use both hands to dig properly and while her head is buried inside her Mary Poppins bag my eyes are yelling loudly Run puppy while you have the chance! RUN! But the dog just stands there shaking and broken because he doesn't know how to be a dog anymore even if he did run.
Dogs are meant to run and bark and chase after balls, to chew on shoes and wrestle around, to be a faithful companion, to develop their own personality. But not this dog because he's never been allowed to be anything but the companion or maybe the occasional dress-up doll. He's never learned to play and it makes me sad because the owner is missing all the best parts about having a dog.