Gone to the dogs

A lifetime of fad diets, regrettable trends and fusion Japanese food can really wear you down. As they say, sometimes you’re the dog and other days you’re the hydrant. So on one of my explosive hydrant days I ate Pepper Lunch and got a dog.

Yes, just like that, without any research, I bought a little golden retriever at the infamous Tiendesitas. He had no papers, no pedigree (unlike my Caligula, my Pomeranian that hails from international champions and walks like a beauty pageant contestant) and just a shady vaccine card with a pair of beady take-me-home eyes. My boyfriend and I chose him from the many pet stores in the market because his store was the most hygienic one. They made us spray our hands with alcohol before handling the puppies. We were immediately bowled over, especially The Boyfriend who is a bit of a germaphobe. There was no rhyme or reason to the events that happened on that strange Sunday evening when we went out to buy food and came home with a puppy.

Being a dog owner all my life, this was the most dastardly act I had ever committed. Usually I research on the breed, and like with everything else, find the best place to buy the dog. Usually a breeder with many, many awards fits the bill. Once a label whore, always a label whore, I guess.

 I was one to get very small dogs. Little Age of Innocence Pomeranians fit the bill. I also went through a sea of Chihuahuas, the most beloved one Hercules dying just after a year and a half.

 I seemed to have forgotten the fact that I live in a tiny townhouse that only has a small lanai for the pup to get his vitamin D in. I also didn’t think about how this little furball would eventually grow to 10 times its size.

 I woke up the next day smelling the foulest odors, only next to chemo puke. I have always been big on odors: every corner of my house is treated with Santa Maria Nouvella potpourri and Cire Trudon candles. I don’t do stink. Caligula was so small that he nary put a dent in my well-manicured life. Milo, on the other hand, was a real dog. There was no Goyard bag to put him when I went to The Fort to buy cupcakes. He was a dog that needed walks. He was a dog that chewed things. He was a dog that had sizable excrements. He was a dog that could get fleas. He was a dog that barked in baritone. So my first thought on that jarring Monday morning was, “WTF did I do?”

Milo is the greatest mistake ever. My little mistake is now my favorite running companion. He wakes me up in the morning with his tail wagging and a ball in his mouth. He patiently waits for me to go home. The biggest plus: He was born to pee and crap on grass. So even if I’m glassy-eyed from sleep I take him out in my pajamas to the chagrin of my neighbors and save my Aubussons from the wrath of Montezuma.

 Milo has raised his share of havoc, befitting a dog on the rise. He has gone to town with my beloved cashmere blankets from India. He has managed to bald Caligula’s tail by chasing his BFF around thinking he’s still a little dog himself. He’s ruined many outfits by pouncing on me with his muddy paws. However, nothing can erase the voodoo he does when shoots me his Bette Davis eyes. His blonde coat doesn’t cramp things either.

I promised him three things:

1.He will never have to wear clothes like Caligula had to endure.

2.He will never have to endure a photo shoot.

3. He will never have a bedazzled collar with his name on it; instead he’ll have a real collar… by Hermés.

 I mean, just because he’s a real dog that runs in dog parks doesn’t mean we can slack off now. Caligula has Goyard, Milo will have Hermés.

The National Geographic program called Dog Whisperer by Cesar Milan, a show that focuses on rehabilitating problem dogs, consumes me. I have learned I am my own worst enemy. No wonder Caligula owns me; all those designer pet clothes have made him my superior. Caligula thinks he’s human. He drinks spring water in a Fornasetti bowl. Wonder how that effed him up in the pecking order.

Milo drinks from the hose. He doesn’t use the organic shampoo that Caligula is more inclined to. He likes soap. He likes to play rough. Aside from the cashmere conflict, he’s also had a Louboutin rebellion and an almost Chanel anarchy as he chewed up the sides of a vintage Chanel purse. This dog is definitely not a friend of Madison Avenue.

But he’s a good dog. In an effort to curb his heathen ways, which get in the way of his long array of charms, we went to doggie academy. Better Dogs is Cesar Milan Live. Jojo, his instructor — or rather my instructor — taught me how to be a pack leader and not to fall in the trap of spoiling the one thing that loves me so unconditionally. It breaks my heart that I can’t give him treats all day and limit him to just one toy every week or so. The worst part is repeating the word that every unstable 30-year-old woman never wants to hear: “No.” This dog has heard more “no’s” than Tara Reid at the clubs. This is his “no” year. No biting, no peeing, no barking, no treats, no jumping, no shedding, no sleeping on couches, no scratching… No, no, no!

Despite all the “no’s,” he still loves me and places his favorite ball in my hand for a game of late evening fetch. After a few tosses he turns around and is ready for bed. I’m the last thing he looks at before he closes his eyes.

He is truly the best mistake ever.

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Better Dog can be contacted at 886-5918.