I just returned from a little party in the lobby of my building.
And just like any good party, there was a guest of honor.
I will give you three clues as to who:
- She is about 8 inches tall.
- She is the color of a very dark storm cloud.
- She doesn’t speak English, which may or may not be the reason she cocks her head to the side ever so slightly when I say her name.
And so now you have probably narrowed down the guest of honor to either a non-English speaking little person with a beautiful dark tone to her skin, or my puppy: Luna.
Well, I can tell you that it was the latter, but I would love to attend a party in my lobby for the former at some point. I mean, it’d be a story, that’s for sure.
It’s amazing how simply toting around a puppy gives you a neighborly feel. Like, you’re suddenly transported to Smalltown, USA, where everyone says “Have a good day!” as they pass you on the way to the drug store to get something from the soda fountain.
Just today, I must have had 15 or so conversations with strangers. And, you know, I think it’s marvelous. I think we should all be so friendly. I think we should all have an attitude, at least, of “Have a nice day!” And I think we should all be respectful and talk about safe, kind things–such as how old your puppy is.
There was the lady with the corgi, and the man with the mixed-dog-with-marvelous-spots who, in a flash, ran up and stole Luna’s kibble and took three whole slurps of her water–uh, the dog did, rather, not the man!–and the guy with the shiba inu.
“What breed is your dog, again?” I asked, knowing it was Japanese, but feeling that itch in your brain that happens when you can’t quite recall a word that you know you know.
“She’s a shiba,” the guys says.
“Shiba?” interjects the doorlady, “Oh, what a BEAUTIFUL name for her! Shiba. Now that’s nice.”
Nobody wanted to burst her bubble and let her know that it wasn’t the dog’s name, but rather its breed, but finally the owner clarified and we all had a good laugh.
“But Shiba IS a beautiful name,” I added consolingly, thinking of the Queen of Sheba and how anyone named after her is not too shabby.
There was the dog walker with three dogs of various breeds who was a little bit judgy and did not give me the feeling she wanted me to have a nice day at all, now that I think about it. And there was the guy with the beautiful, muscly, silvery weimaraner who I met at the park.
And I had conversations with all of them.
This is not including all the others, either.
Or even the party in the lobby tonight.
Luna walked and wriggled and tried to chew everyone and everything she could fit into her little, pink tongued mouth. She yawned and everyone gasped like they’d seen the most magical thing. She bit one of them and he acted like it was the kiss of a fairy, he was so appreciative.
“She might bite your tie,” I warned one guy.
“Oh, it’s cheap!”
“She will probably bite your finger, if you hold it out like that,” I warned another.
“Oh, it’s nothing!” said the lady, as she tried to extract her finger from my Luna’s little needle-like baby teeth.
“She seems like such a good dog!” said someone, and then we talked.
“I don’t really believe in good or bad dogs, but Luna is definitely making good choices and I am trying my best to give her the tools to be successful.”
(leave it to me to psychoanalyze when someone is just trying to make pleasant and complimentary conversation about a puppy; I blame my mom’s masters degree in counseling)
“You are the luckiest dog owner in the world,” said another guy.
I thanked him and said she’s a rockstar and is doing an amazing job at going to the bathroom outside.
Who knew I’d talk about poop so joyously to a handful of strangers at eleven pm at night in a city with which I never thought I’d become so well acquainted?
And who knew I’d love it quite so much?