I think I've become one of those people. You know, those weird dog people. I'm not sure exactly how it happened, but it has.
My parents always had dogs while we were growing up, and so once I graduated college and was making enough money (ha!) to live on my own, I of course ran out and adopted a doggie. She's a Frenchie named Bridget Jones, and she is adorable. Seriously. Check out the pics on my website if you don't believe me. I think she might actually be the cutest French Bulldog in the entire world (not that I'm biased or anything). Even my mom says so.
When writing my upcoming Ro Com, GETTIN' LUCKY, I knew that the protagonist, Cass, would have to have a dog of her very own. And when Cass is having relationship issues or any other form of drama, she and Maxine, her Boston Terrier, alternately snuggle up on the couch or go for long runs outdoors. Both incredibly normal, appropriate owner-pet behavioral patterns.
Unfortunately, I'm a bit more high-strung than Cass. I'm a neurotic New Yorker, what can I say? And despite having been raised to believe that a "real" dog is a retriever of sorts that runs, jumps, and, well...retrieves...I've chosen to share my 500-square foot apartment with a creature that can't get up onto my bed without the assistance of a footstool. It's embarrassing. And as time goes on, I just continue to lower my own standards.
I knew I had hit rock bottom when I entered her into a "Doggie Halloween Parade." I'm going to have to spend the next two weeks brainstorming costumes (suggestions welcome).
The best thing about living in NYC, however, is that I am in very good company. Today, for instance, I'm off to Central Park for a "celebration of dogs."
I'm not sure what it will entail. And I'm not sure that Miss J will enjoy it nearly as much as I will. But I don't care. Because--you see? I've *totally* become one of those people.