Welcome to the inner sanctum of a true Dog Lady. Yes, I prefer the company of animals over most people. Yes, my dog serves as my live-in therapist. Yes, I talk to him daily in hopes that one day he’ll respond and I’ll catch it for snapchat. And yes, all this means I’m single.
We are told by our families, the internet, our phones, our friends, and the media to find our “other.” So, this is a series about one woman’s quest (me) to find a partner in life as obsessed with dogs as she is.
Just call me Carrie Bradshaw minus the walk in closet, barrage of single eligible men, and New York backdrop. Then add a tiny rescue Frenchie named Ziggy, a studio apartment, and the mean streets of LA. Sidenote: No, unfortunately he’s not named for Ziggy Stardust or Ziggy Marley… he’s named after Florenz Ziegfeld of the Ziegfeld Follies because I’m obsessed with Barbra Streisand and her role in Funny Girl.
Take that in. Now you know the struggle is real.
Ever since Ziggy came into my life I’ve been told by friends that I had adopted a “babe magnet”. Score. Bring on the hot dudes.
Stories of walking through the arch at Washington Square Park and a modelesque, tall, dark, and handsome man who works for ‘Doctors Without Borders’, has no children, moonlights as a local stand-up comedian, and just happens to be financially secure from a dead aunt who left him a sizeable fortune, would walk up to Ziggy, kiss him (open mouth) and then follow up my sweatpants to lock eyes with me. Then he’d ask if we could all go on a date ice skating at Rockefeller Center where he’d have four tiny ice skates made for Ziggy. And we’d laugh and and laugh and fall in love as fireworks would light up the sky.
Sounds feasible, right? Except this has never happened. In Florida, New York, New Orleans, and definitely not now in LA. Granted Ziggy gets tons of attention, it’s never from hot dudes, well straight ones at least, but from women. All women. Great.
“OMG is he even real? Can I touch him? Take a pic of us, Sloane!” squeals the group of screaming teen girls with flat ironed hair and too much makeup. Yes, he’s real, and apparently so is the growing stupidity only validated by how many ‘likes’ you got today.
“What a sweet face! Can I hold your baby?!” says the attractive 9 foot tall blonde, writing her hit series in my local coffee shop, subtly hiding from her fans. Oof. Yes, more successful version of me, of course you can. And thank you for pointing out that I care more for him than a human baby.
“I DIE! arggggg ahhhhh goooooo IT”S A FRENCHIE! HOW MUCH WAS HE? WHO’S YOUR BREEDER?” screams the rich white mothers of Hancock Park, who quickly become embarrassed when I say I rescued him from a bad puppy mill, and that wasn’t ‘bred’ he was born without a nose and after months of physical therapy and a blessing from a witch doctor in Joshua Tree he grew one overnight and can now smell peanut butter! Ok, well I made that last part up. But their reassuring, “Oh my’s!” are always good for an inside giggle.
I’ve tried walking him in athletic stores, brought him to bars, dressed him in tiny bow ties, and nothing but women and happy couples approach. Granted I’ve done all these things first and foremost for my benefit, Zig always gets a discount, a seat at the bar, and it’s hours of fun for me thinking of him as a dog executive.
Stay tuned for my next adventure… The Dog Park.