Illustration by Jan A. Igoe
Most of the time, I don’t get invited to hang out with the beautiful people at swanky A-list events. But that’s OK, because my dog does. Until he gets his driver’s license, I get to tag along.
Romeo, my tall, dark, handsome mutt, just received an embossed invitation (with his name in gold calligraphy) to Paris-the-schnoodle’s third birthday bash. He loves her parties because the caterer always serves bacon and chicken-liver cheesecake. It’s his favorite.
Oh, yes, I said “caterer.”
Paris is a designer dog who weighs about six pounds. She has a wardrobe of gem-studded leather leashes accented with gold hardware, just in case some national emergency requires her to walk.
Paris travels exclusively by shoulder-driven purse—pink, sequined and generously trimmed with feather boa. It’s unlikely her pristine paws have ever touched anything but shag carpet. In fact, I’ve never seen her legs. But she must have them because her owner swears the price of a good French-tip pedicure “is going insane, Darling.”
I’m not implying that Paris is spoiled, although she does have a massage therapist and a blog. But that’s the norm for this crowd. Their definition of animal cruelty is dry kibble.
Of course, today’s designer dog is much more than an upgraded mutt. It’s the most brilliant marketing concept in the history of dog-dom. Just take a popular breed, such as a poodle—which would gladly mate with a toaster oven—arrange a romantic evening with a Yorkie or a Labrador, and you’ve got yourself a designer dog worth more than my first car.
At one time, mutts were just unidentified barking objects. You could pick one up on any street corner for next to nothing. But now, anything-oodles go for big bucks. In Paris’ case, we’re talking $1,950 for a purse ornament that will never fetch slippers, find bombs, pull a sled or accompany your significant other on a hunting trip. (Paris wouldn’t be caught dead in one of those dreadful orange vests.)
Actually, Romeo doesn’t do that stuff either. But investment-wise—since one Paris equals 38 Romeos—I got much more under-achieving couch potato for my buck.
I suspect that Paris’ security detail didn’t run a thorough background check on my four-legged bargain, or he wouldn’t be wolfing down her Swedish meatballs as we speak.
Can you keep a secret? Romeo’s last known address was the pound. He doesn’t exactly fit the designer-doggy mold. Actually, he’s more of a Heinz 57. He could be part poodle, like Paris. Or he might be part bichon. He could be part buffalo. Who knows? He’s a mutt.
But he’s a classy mutt. He’s home schooled—never enrolled in doggie day camp—and doesn’t need beef-flavored Prozac to behave, unlike some other party guests. Except for a strong romantic attraction to bare shins, he’s a perfect gentleman.
It’s just too bad nobody warned the caterer to wear slacks.
EDITOR’S NOTE: South Carolina Living is reprinting some of Jan A. Igoe’s previous columns. This “Humor Me” originally appeared in the October 2010 issue.