Fern Watt reports on New York City’s canine affairs. This is her bi-weekly column, Pets and the City.
I was walking in the West Village at 10 p.m., wearing the most adorable Staud dress, when I heard a couple call out from behind me—
“Oh my god. We love your outfit! Are you in fashion or something?”
I paused.
I had just come from a fashion show. But it was the kind of fashion show where the models were obsessed with food, ate treats on the runway, and it was completely acceptable to pet them.
This is because the models were dogs.
“Well, no,” I admitted, before explaining that I actually write about dogs, and I had just been at a canine fashion show.
They gasped.
And then—before I could get much further—they did what people always do when I mention dogs and my job: they pulled out their phones.
“This is Parker,” he smiled, revealing a photo of a Goldendoodle in a bow tie, posing in front of a professional backdrop like it was his yearbook photo.
We chatted for a few minutes about their doodle, and before we parted ways, I asked them to remind me of their names.
“I’m Chris. This is my husband, James, and our son is Parker,” he declared without any sarcasm in his voice.
As I walked away, I couldn’t help but smile.
Despite not sharing the same species classification, I knew Parker really was… their son.
I mean, my fiancé frequently calls me from work to check on “our children” (a rescue dog mutt and a labradoodle). And the other day, I mailed my dad an “I Love My Grandogs” bumper sticker.
Still, even though I clean up Bette and Oscar’s number two, sprinkle flavorful chicken toppings on their food, and find myself shouting things like, “What did I just tell you?” and “Put that down!”—
I know my dogs are not, technically, my children.
Please.
My dogs are the ones raising me.
…
For example, my dogs do not tolerate me hitting snooze multiple times in the morning. I need to get out of bed and go on a walk, even when I don’t feel like it. And if I spend too much time hunched over my computer, my dogs are there again—nagging! They start with a gentle warning (booping me with their noses), but if I don’t peel myself away from that screen, they start pacing.
Do you have ANY IDEA what time it is? We don’t either, but you must walk now. That hole outside is not going to dig itself, we have our routine squirrel perimeter check, and of course, we need to stand in grass and sniff tree – WHICH IS NOT A FAST PROCESS. Alright, I’m counting. 1…7…4…8…WOOF WOOF WOOF!
Many dog scientists and trainers say that pups love a routine. Unfortunately for my canine family members, routine is not something that comes naturally for me. But I do think Bette and Oscar are trying to train me. They sit at their bowls at precise times—like adorable, fluffy calendar reminders—prompting me to complete the seemingly simple task of feeding them. When I scoop the kibbles into the bowl, Bette and Oscar are SO excited. “Wow, thanks, guys! I know—it was really hard! I almost forgot, but then I did it. Thank you for recognizing my achievements! Yes, I know. I am remarkable!”
I’ve written about dogs and humans for ten years, and something I’ve learned is that dogs and humans evolved together. It’s not an exaggeration to say we built the world together. In New York City, no other animal lives among us like dogs. Dogs are everywhere. They’re in parks, on subways, in cafés, and in tiny apartments. They’re in the T-Mobile store while you’re trying to fix something on your phone, but this employee can’t seem to do it.
And you’re frustrated because there are all these security questions you don’t know the answer to, and to make matters worse, Pour Some Sugar on Me and Stacy’s Mom are blasting at volume nine (when everyone knows the correct volume for these songs is zero). And of course, it’s the Upper West Side, so there’s a woman trying to change her Nokia’s ringtone from Fur Elise to Mozart, which is sweet, but—I’ve got to go! Just when I’m about to lose it, a beautiful, senior Golden Retriever enters. I rush over for a quick petting session. Suddenly, I feel better. This fluffy angel gives me the boost of joy I need to get through—not all of life in the city, but at LEAST the next few minutes—until I can step outside onto 72nd Street and spot another dog to pet.
This column is called Pets and the City, but I know, I know… pets?
Pets?!
Dogs are not pets!
We just went over this.
You think your dogs are your parents!
But: I don’t mean pets as a noun. I mean pets as a verb.
…
New York City is a tough place! I rarely leave my apartment without rushing, and there’s always pressure to “make it” here, which leaves me thinking, How am I ever going to get there?! It’s easy to think that stopping to meet dogs—or just hanging out with your own—takes you out of the rush of New York. But I think dogs slow us down to show us New York. When I stop to pet dogs, I actually stop.
Of course, I know dogs aren’t “parents” (in the traditional human sense). They’re not technically “children.”
But my favorite thing about dogs is that they are dogs. Wagging, adorable, snorting, fluffy, loving dogs! We get to do life with another species, and that always feels magical to me—like we’re superheroes and these canines are our most loyal sidekicks. Anyway, I give the dogs some pets, and just like that, the city feels softer, and a little more connected.
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