One of the best things about living in California is the state’s laissez-faire policies on women and our small dogs.
Stop into just about any boutique or vintage shop along the Central Coast and you’ll be sure to spot us, pushing our carts through the aisles while our little dogs perched on the cart looking out like Leonardo DiCaprio on the bow of the Titanic. Led by our patron saint Paris Hilton, we make no apologies for inserting our precious pets into every social occasion. We offer only side-eyes and dismissive frowns to those who dare question our furry friends’ place of honor at dinner, the mall, or your baby’s baptism.
I never once questioned my place among them. When we moved from Texas back to California, I was eager to rejoin this elite group of California Dog Ladies, alongside my precious BB, my beloved daughter dog-child who yes, I definitely birthed, and no, that’s not creepy like something out of The Antichrist—why would you ever say that? I was excited to unite with these ladies in search of the perfect doggy purse, to sit in cafes whilst eating dainty sandwiches and talking about how cute our fur babies looked in their little mini-tiaras.
Until the day I realized I wasn’t nearly prepared to play in this league.
My wake-up call came during a recent trip to a local pet boutique. This wasn’t a big-box chain or where you go looking for some boring old leash or plain collar. They had carpeting on the floor (I’m sure that’s a fun carpet-cleaning bill). They served wine. They had dressing rooms for the dogs equipped with actual mirrors sized just for them. And of course, they had racks and racks of dog dresses with designer labels. Welcome to the Super Bowl of dog shopping.
I never thought I would be a 42-year-old woman who dotes on a tiny dog and dresses it in frilly clothes. (I also thought I would be 5 inches taller and married to David Duchovny, but life comes at you fast.) Nevertheless, there I was fussing over mini-dog sailor hats in a boutique where the cheapest object probably costs more than what I pay in rent.
Products ranged from the absurd (dog berets) to the really absurd (hand-crocheted eco-friendly dog berets). The care products alone would make a high-end Beverly Hills salon look like a Supercuts. There were $80 shampoos and conditioners for your dog’s hairstyle and “scent sensitivities,” ear massage lotions, and dainty bottles of pet nail polish in colors with names like “Imelda Marcos Green” and “Namaste Blue.” But seriously, who doesn’t need a $45 dog salve made from the honey of virgin bees flown in from Ecuador?
One lady in the corner was complaining that someone named “Rain,” her dog’s manicurist and chakra adviser, was out of town on a bio-awareness and juice fast retreat, and wasn’t that such a tragedy for poor Clementine? I don’t even have a dentist but why should that matter when the security of my dog’s chakra is at stake?
Dog spiritual readings are a little out of my comfort zone so I tried to join in other conversations about dog toys. I asked the shop owner if she had any good suggestions, like a chew toy or a cute stuffed animal.
“I prefer Jacobi to play with dog toys that are made out of 100 percent organic materials, hand sewn by a team of artisanal craftsmen who operate a store out of a yurt in upstate New York,” another woman shopping shared with me. “Their philosophy is that each dog toy should symbolize a transition in their aura.”
Right now BB’s favorite toy to play with is an old gym sock of Chris’ she found in the backseat of the car. I wondered if I should ask her what disgusting, smelly old clothing represents about BB’s aura, but then I thought better of it.
“My favorite toy they sell is called ‘Clytemnestra: The Afterbirth,’” she continued. “It is made of crepe de chine and comes in a beautiful Majorelle Blue which expresses my dog’s innate charisma, his desire to be creative, and his need to be a problem solver.”
“Sure, that’s definitely BB; she’s totally a ‘problem-solver,’” I said desperately hoping she wouldn’t notice my dog trying to eat her own leash.
These dog people have also evolved from carrying their dogs in cute designer purses (sooo 2002) to actual dog strollers. This is literally a baby stroller with a zip-up compartment you can push your dog around in. I can’t think of a better way to scream to the world “I have given up all hope of living a normal life.”
But the pet jewelry was the real clincher. The moment you hold a $400 diamond-studded dog collar in your hand is a surreal, sobering one. It’s like watching Dwight D. Eisenhower ride into your living room on a unicorn to ask if you know where a Taco Bell is. That’s when I knew: These people are on another level. Here I was looking for cutesy bandanas for BB while they were fretting over appointments with their dog’s therapists.
Look, I’m positively gaga over my dog—I take her everywhere with me, I spoil her rotten with toys and treats, and I consider her an adorable addition to our family. But I’m not “$400 diamond collar” gaga over her.
Suddenly I felt the need to get out of there as fast as humanly possibly, before I ended up penniless and living in a tent made of designer dog clothes. I was out of my depth and I couldn’t deny it anymore. Trying to roll with these women was like following up Rachmaninov at a piano recital with your best version of “Chopsticks.”
Back at home, I watched BB play with the gym sock while wearing a $4 shirt with “I AM A Q-T-PIE” written in pink glitter on the back. That’s my dog lady level: an old sock that probably can’t help define your aura and pink glitter. I think I’m good with that.
Rebecca Rose is freelance writer and satirist who has written for Cosmopolitan, Jezebel, Harper’s Bazaar, Esquire, Marie Claire, Elle, Seventeen, Redbook, and many others. Her origins are largely unknown. Some people suspect she was raised by a pack of wolves, except it is highly unlikely that wolves would put up with so much drinking and swearing.
This article appears in Oct 6-13, 2016.