Dog Rebuttal

There are dog people and there are cat people; those remainders often are considered heartless. I'd like to make the argument that those that don't keep pets aren't necessarily heartless. My pet history would indicate that I'm a cat person, but ask me and I'll vehemently deny it. I've always considered myself a dog lover, but I've never been able to name, walk, or play with a dog of my own. I tried, believe me, I tried. I begged relentlessly as a young S.A. for a dog. My parents would ask what I wanted for Christmas, and I would reply, "a beagle." Instead of a beagle I'd get something that required less work, like the Treasure Island Lego set. For my birthday, my parents would ask me what I wanted with the stipulation that it couldn't be Nikes, so I would suggest a dog. No way, Jose. As I got older I tried to spin it one hundred different ways, like: we could use the companionship, Dad could blame his flatulence on the canine, Mom could get all of that exercise that she had promised. My parents never bent. No dog. Instead our family pets were goldfish and Reggie the outdoor cat. In case you had not noticed I blame my parents a great deal for "the way I am" today. My mom presented two reasons why we could never have a dog: 1) no matter how much my brother and I told her we would care for the canine, it would inevitably fall on her lap (she was right), and 2) she vowed to never own another dog after Kimo, my parents German Shepherd, and the heartbreak that ensued when he was killed chasing a tennis ball into oncoming traffic.

Today, I find myself praying for occasional rain to wash the urine and dog dung from the sidewalks so that I may have an unobstructed walk to the subway. At 24 and living on the UES, having a dog is all the rage. I am definitely a dog lover, but let's call a spade a spade. Dogs are eating, pissing, and crapping machines. So when a girl asks me why I don't get a dog, I think it's only appropriate to respond, "Because I can't take care of myself, let alone another breathing mammal." Immediately her eyes betray her smile as she laughs and I get placed into the heartless category. It's really fine. I don't expect that she understand my reasoning. She couldn't possibly understand that my parents don't contribute to my rent or that I couldn't physically walk the dog more than once a day. That, my friends, is animal cruelty.

Why do recent graduates, my age, feel compelled to get a dog? Is it because they're in such a rush to take on additional responsibility and divorce themselves completely from frat parties and beer? Is it for security in the city [certainly not with that Chihuahua]? Is it for the companionship [for both owner and dog]? Whatever the answer, it probably boils down to something that isn't fair to the animal, but somehow the owner manages to convince themselves that "it's no big deal." Believe me, my heart breaks every time I see Lilly, that gorgeous bulldog, drag her ass on the leash. However, I know if I got a dog, I'd bet kibbles to bits that the dog would end up in a shelter because I couldn't care for it as much as every UES girl would like to believe I could. The fact that I don't have any pets doesn't mean I'm heartless, just responsible. It has nothing to do with my ability to care or love you, so please forget what that psychologist said it means when she was quoted in that interview in Cosmo.

Animal Cruelty

Many believe Michael Vick is Anti-PETA/the devil/and a despicable sorry excuse for a human-being. While I don't condone the behavior that landed Vick in a penitentiary (where his life was hardly disrupted), what with a regiment of lifting weights, scheduled laps around the exercise yard, and watching cable daily, I'd hardly consider him cruel. The man had an addiction. He was a gambling fool.

The flagrant offense is on display everyday in Gotham on the UES. Irresponsible girls think it's a rite of passage to move into an apartment, that their parents completely subsidize, with a beloved dog. Consider the following hypothetical girl. Strike one: she doesn't make enough money to bankroll her "out-every-night-of-the-week-clubbing" lifestyle, let alone that mangy rat that she calls a dog. Strike two: she dresses her little toy pup in a matching Burberry jacket, because everyone knows that she has to match her mommy. Strike three: the bitch drops the most foul feces all over the sidewalk, whilst the other bitch sips her skinny non-fat grande peppermint-cinno and calls her friend Samantha (you know, the one that has all of the sex) on her Blackberry, which means she conveniently missed Truffle's little gift that I'm bound to walk in on the way to the subway.

It's the little things that make me think I'm over this city. It makes me want to flee to some secluded area of New England like Salinger, and sooner or later I'd fade from the "collective" memory, with Birthdays passing unnoticed. Irrelevance is bliss.