Far From a Dog's Life In New York City

There are those in New York City that live a life of privilege and entitlement. They are of superior breeding, well aware of their elevated status. They sport the latest fashions and are more than happy to let the little people clean up their latest mess.

They come in all shapes and sizes, but their attitudes are all the same. Yorkshire Terriers, Cavalier King Charles Spaniels, Boxers and Bernese Mountain Dogs. They are the most pampered species in all of Manhattan.

Many people decide that their dog’s feet are far too precious to touch the ground. They get wheeled around in baby carriages that have been renamed “PET STROLLERS!”

These members of the Royal Canine Family race around the city in golden chariots for all to admire. Tourists trying to catch a peek at the baby in a stroller are suddenly face to face with a Lhasa Apso who wouldn’t notice them even if they were a fire hydrant.

Her Majesty patiently waits for the push

The pups that actually have to touch the ground don’t walk, they delicately prance. And it’s the little ones that have the real street creds. The big dogs want no part of them.

I watched a 4-pound Dachshund at 66th and 3rd do everything in its power break free from it’s owner’s arms to launch itself onto a 60-pound Boxer. The boxer literally yanked its owner into traffic to put some distance between him and that little savage.

But the best part is the outfits. Almost every dog on the Upper East Side has a matching hat to go with his stylish pullover.

In my building, I witnessed a young woman with no protection from the rain putting individual matching rain booties onto her Pomeranian that already was already wearing a custom-fitted bright yellow raincoat.

I looked at her questioningly. Surely she wasn’t dressing that little guy this way so she could walk out into a driving rainstorm with nothing more than a hoodless sweatshirt for herself. She looked at me and said, “What?”

I replied, “It’s raining pretty hard out there.”

She looked at me like I was an idiot, “I know, That’s why we have to make sure Pookie stays nice and dry.” She looked at Pookie and said, “Yes, we do.”

“Um, ok.”

With that, she led the Pookster into a driving rainstorm, while sheltering him (not herself) with a skimpy little umbrella. I never found out for sure, but I think she drowned and Pookie used her corpse as a life raft until he could get to higher ground.