I have a new bff. She is an English Sheep dog. Her name is Elizabeth II.
Before taking on the responsibility of a pet, I waited six weeks for an appointment with Bulldog Watanabe, Brentwood’s top Canine Consultant. First, he said, buy a small, harmless collar to keep Elizabeth from barking. Neighbors go postal over noisy dogs, especially when their owners leave for the day or the weekend, and let their animals howl from glass-breaking loneliness outdoors.
My consultant’s must-do list included carrying cute baggies for solid waste, and a serious warning about the other kind. While there isn’t a municipal ordinance or fine for leaving liquid waste behind, smart money says there’s a guy on every block who has planted four lawns in as many months because passing pooches tend to lift their pampered legs, leaving what morphs into yellow circles on new, green turf. Apparently, the turf boys videotape everything and, brandishing sawed-off shot guns, leave DV
Ds and threats on perpetrators’ doorsteps.
I love Elizabeth II. You will, too. I long to show her off, and be like all the other puppy moms walking their proud progeny twice daily. But I still have to withdraw my troops from Afghanistan and save Social Security, so I’m not about to tangle with anyone over puppy pee. Please, somebody, design doggie diapers.
In the meantime, I’m keeping Elizabeth II indoors, on her Dux bed, shrinkwrapped, just like she arrived from FAO Schwartz.
© 2011 Molly-Ann Leikin
