To the dog walkers of the world,
I live in Yorkville – which, for those of you who are unfamiliar, is the personal grooming capital of Toronto. As an ‘adult’ who finds it difficult to suppress laughter when a hairdresser presses an appointment card into my hand as I leave the salon, scheduled a mere four weeks into the future, and who still occasionally finds eyeshadow at the bottom of my makeup bag that I owned prior to having a bachelor’s degree to my name, it’s safe to say I am a little out of place.
Glossy manes expertly coiffed, nails neatly filed, and smelling like a meadow, these bitches saunter past me in the corridor, the doorway and the lobby, hair tossed casually around like they’re in a L’Oreal ad. And to be perfectly honest, their human counterparts are pretty impeccable themselves.
Not a day goes by when I don’t see a well-manicured mutt breeze past me at the concierge, swollen with kibble and self-importance. We get it, you’re pretty.
In fact, living here, I think I know just how Julia Roberts felt in Pretty Woman: “I don’t think we have anything for you” says the prissy shop girl to Vivian, whose only crime is not being able to find a cocktail dress (amen to that, sister). “You’re obviously in the wrong place. Please leave.”
Except I’m not in the wrong place – nor am I a former hooker shopping on Rodeo Drive, for that matter. Excuse my metaphors for becoming a little tangled. I’m in the elevator, in my building, where I actually live.
But people could be forgiven for identifying me as an alien several lightyears away from my motherland. You see, it’s not just this neighbourhood, or even this city per se, that I am at odds with – it’s dog owners the world over.
Because, friends, while others will obligingly roll out their dignity only to allow a two-foot poodle to trample all over it, I say NO to talking to your canine companion – and I don’t care how goddamn awkward that is about to make the next 30 seconds of our lives.
Allow me to explain. It’s not that I don’t like dogs. I do like dogs. Some dogs. However, dogs are a bit like babies (hear me out). Unless I know its owner, I simply refuse to stroke it or speak to it in preposterously high-pitched gibberish.
And while I’ve never had a pet pooch, I have loved and admired many from a distance. They are giant bundles of fur, placed on top of four ludicrously energetic legs, with extremely mobile tongues and ears and terrible depth perception. They’ve even been known to wear funny little sweaters on occasion. OF COURSE I’M OBSESSED WITH THEM.
But I can’t speak to your furry friend. I can’t engage in idle chit-chat with a pet I’ve only just met. It takes time for me to get to know them, and to feel at home with your hound. To me it would seem improper, presumptuous even, to ask ‘who’s a good boy (or girl)’ and other such philosophical questions of a stranger (and I’m not the only one).
Sure, I see your feelings are hurt. I understand that this is your pride and joy, and I can feel the wait of expectation weighing down on my shoulders as your eyes burn a hole into my soul.
“Why isn’t she asking Ruby if she had a nice day, or if she likes to have her butt rubbed?” I can hear you mentally pondering. But shocking though it seems, the thought to ask her had never even crossed my mind. That’s because I have no interest in your animal’s rear end. Please don’t take it personally.
Sometimes you’ll simply assume I’m shy and need a little coaxing to get the ball rolling.
“Ah, Stefanie has just been for a long walk. She’s verrrrrrrrry tired, aren’t you Stefanie?” Yes, I nod, faux-laughing. That would explain why your 100-pound furry oaf of a dog immediately collapsed on top of my feet upon entering the elevator.
However, inertia is preferable to the reality stars of the canine world – the ones who have zero interest in being coy, who just want to be loved and who will give everything up on their first meeting, even if that means mounting me and sniffing my crotch in front of a room full of people. Desperate for their five minutes of fame, they waste no time in getting all up in your business to the obvious delight of bystanders and their owners, who say with minimal conviction, “That’s enough, Ralph” without taking any of the necessary steps towards restraining their animals.
In fact I don’t think it’s strictly true that dogs can smell fear – but I do think they possess a great nose for ritual humiliation, and can sniff out apathy at 10 paces.
Their bounding over to greet me – the very clear frontrunner for ‘who gives the least f**ks about your labradoodle’ – is the human social equivalent of that person at a wedding reception who considers it their duty to ensure that every poor schmuck is up on the dancefloor dancing to Mambo No. 5.
Other times I can feel myself almost reach out to stroke your dog. The pressure becomes too much and it’s nearly impossible not to; I self-consciously pull my hand out of my pockets and inch towards him. But then I panic. What if this dog doesn’t like being touched? Maybe he’s a biter, or maybe I’ll do it all wrong. So I fashion my outstretched arm into a yawn, stuff my hands back in my jacket, and watch you looking all huffy and deflated out of the corner of my eye.
Being left alone with your pooch is almost worse than all of these awkward encounters combined. I have in the past shrugged and smiled feebly at a dog who shared eye contact with me. In fact, this is the closest I have ever been to actually conversing with a dog – out of sheer desperation.
“So… nice weather we’ve been having” I almost muttered inanely before remembering that one cannot and should not engage in small talk with anything that licks its own sh*t.
The simple thing would have been to stroke the little lady and tell her how cute she was, maybe even ask her about her day. But I knew she wouldn’t ask me the same in return.
I like attention and a good tummy rub as much as the next dog, but I think relationships should be a two-way street. And after all, there are bitches who play hard to get, and then there are just bitches.
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