Dog Country

When I was first flew to Los Angeles in September, I was wearing Bean boots and a middle aged man in line to board the plane started talking to me about hunting. He had recently been to Maine, which I could relate to, but couldn't identify what area he had been in or name one town he'd seen.

He did know a bit about West Hollywood, though: "Gee, there's like, a dog for every citizen of West Hollywood!"

Owen has been staying with me for the past week, and throughout that time we have been aggressively coo-ing at dogs we've seen on the street. My favorite dogs to see on the street are Greyhounds [discouraging Italian Greyhounds] and Owen's favorite are Doxins [especially the baby weiner dogs]. Adopting a majestic animal that was needlessly bred for competition and then, with age, considered useless, is noble and wonderful; buying a designer version of the needy breed is beastly. Yesterday, we went on a hike to Runyon Canyon and saw a group of middle-aged friends who each had their own Italian Greyhound. Larger breeds would run up to the miniature dainty dogs and lick their genitalia, sometimes two at a time, which looked a lot more like rape than communication. This image also helped turn me off to Italian Greyhounds.

Today, Owen's love for Doxins was heated when we went shopping at the Fairfax High School. There was a weiner dog in a wheelchair, it's two hind legs held elevated in a brace and replaced by wheels.
"I can't tell if it's heart-breaking or heart-warming!" He thought for a moment. "Heart-warming!"

As luck would have it, within minutes, Owen found a cardigan covered in Doxins, it's buttons shaped like plastic hot dogs. Quick examination of the sweater's tag showed that it had originally sold exclusively by QVC.