Tuesday, July 25, 2006

Who Needs Therapy Now?

by Judy Gruen
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For quite some time now my neighbor Molly has been in therapy to deal with her “issues.” Since Molly doesn’t drive, her live-in companion, Josie, takes her to the appointments. This is a rather extraordinary effort on Josie’s part, since the therapist is located nearly 100 miles away. 

Frankly, I haven’t seen much change in Molly despite all the head-shrinking.  She acts much like she always has: trotting along next to Josie, barking at suspicious-looking folks, and stopping to make wee-wee every fifth tree. 

Molly is a thoroughly modern dog, with her therapy, haute doggity couture (including a fetching Saturday sailor suit and jaunty hat), and excursions to the mall. In fact, she lives a life similar to a lot of kids these days, only with less homework.

Not that long ago when gasoline was cheap and we drank water straight from the tap, dogs lived like, well, dogs. They had dog names, like Fido or Fetch, slept outside, ate dog food, chased squirrels, and generally were happy just to let their tongues hang out as much as possible.

All that has changed. Today’s dogs expect a lot more out of life, and who can blame them? Dogs are the new kids, with names like Thurston or Brittany, designer wardrobes, and for some, regularly scheduled aromatherapy treatments and “furcials.”

Dogs also have trumped kids as objects of admiration and curiosity. For example, when I take a walk with one of my kids and our dog, passersby never fail to stop and say, “What a cute dog! How old is he? Is he a rescue? Where do you have him groomed?” Inquiring minds want to know all about Ken, but have zero curiosity about my kid. Don’t they want to know if my kid was also a rescue? Have they no interest in where she gets her hair cut? Perhaps if I put a collar and a leash on my daughter people might notice her also. I would love to try this as an experiment, but my daughter has vetoed the idea.

I’m embarrassed about our dog’s humanoid name, but it’s not our fault. He was a rescue, and we were warned that we might inflict psychological damage by changing his name, given so many other stresses in his life at the time of the adoption. So he remained Ken and displayed psychological damage anyway by eating the living room couch for lunch every day and eating my sons’ underwear for dessert. But with behavior this endearing, it was impossible to give him away.

Sure, we consider our dog a member of the family, sort of. Others believe the ties go even deeper. Crystal, who grooms him at Many Paws each month, always assures a nervous Ken, “Don’t worry, baby, Mommy will come back for you soon.” I never realized the resemblance between us was that striking. 

Nearly all breeds are now easily confused with actual children, but based on my observations, poodles, Pomeranians, bijan frises, and any “toy” breed top the faux-kid list. Last week I waited in a pharmacy while a woman warned, “Mommy’s leaving in three minutes, Sally!” to a six-pound ball of fur wearing slippers who had ambled behind the counter. Playing her role as mischievous child to the hilt, Sally refused to come out until Mommy played her trump card: “If you’re not out by the count of three no treats from the Barkery today!” I stood riveted by the drama, unsure of the denouement, but when Sally heard the click-click of Mommy’s heels on the floor she scrambled as fast as her four-inch high legs could carry her.

We once took Ken into the Barkery, just for laughs. It’s like a Saks Fifth Avenue for dogs and cats, featuring everything from cologne (tested on humans, not animals) to jewelry to clothing, including formal wear, biker chic, loungewear, and hats for every occasion: pink pillbox hats, cowboy hats and crushable, packable sun hats for the dog on the go.

But speaking of dogs on the go, or at least dogs that need to go, Ken didn’t immediately intuit that the Barkery wasn’t the kind of place where you could just lift your leg over a cashmere doggy bed and do your business. Thankfully, we were able to yank him fast enough so that he hit a leather “Barkalounger” instead. We were grateful, since leather is so much easier to clean than cashmere. Pets worn out from all their shopping also enjoy high-priced gourmet cookies and pastries, each in a fancy foil cup, displayed behind a glass case.

We watched in amazement as shoppers snapped up boots and silver heart necklaces for their pooches, but we had to leave quickly once Ken starting using his teeth to examine an ivory Damask pillow with brush fringe accents. No way would I spend ninety-five bucks on a chew toy. 

I confess that one winter, we did expand Ken’s wardrobe from only a collar and rabies tag to a trench coat. We thought that perhaps, shielded a bit from the elements, he might be willing to walk in the rain he despises for more than 30 seconds. Although he looked dapper in his coat, he also looked depressed, as if we had inflicted the deepest possible insult. It’s really a shame, though. When he wore it and also had a bone hanging out of his mouth, he was a dead ringer for Peter Sellers as Inspector Clouseau.

No doubt that my neighbor Josie, human companion of the dog Molly with issues, would strongly disapprove of our having exploited our dog, however briefly, by dressing him up for our own amusement. Do I care? Trench coat aside, I laugh my head off just thinking that Josie takes her dog to a therapist. Maybe if Molly wasn’t forced to wear a kimono to therapy, her issues might go away.

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