I felt a little stuck a few months ago. So I adopted a dog like any normal, level-headed broke chick living on the ghetto side of Greenpoint, Brooklyn would do. What would my oversized frames and fixie bike be without a French Bulldog? Except I wear oversized glasses because I have chronic dry eye - a super sexy disease that always seems to come up on first dates between my glass of What's Your Cheapest White Wine and the local fried organic artisan grass-fed jalapeno appetizer (welcome to Williamsburg). I also don't own a bike, but I'll sometimes pretend like I do while I shoot the shit with the chain smoking hipsters outside my office - commiserating about how awful the weather is for riding conditions. I'm actually terrified of getting hit by a car or tipping over at a stop light or eating shit in front of real cyclists - and you know that matching elbow and knee pads would ruin my street cred. The closest I've been to a bike in the city is my ex's. He would wear his fancy lock around his waist while he walked it around like a prized fucking poodle. He neglected to tell me it got stolen 6 months post-purchase, and when one night I suggested he cruise over on his 2-wheeled companion - unaware it was under Amber Alert - he called me an asshole. After I offered to put up signs with a reward he decidedly didn't speak to me for 3 days. This is the same man who posted a photo on Instagram of the rare designer label in his $1,500 sweater using a Lo-Fi filter with the caption, "gotta stay warm somehow". Don't worry, projectile vomiting is a normal side effect.
When this terrible excuse for a human left my life, I turned to a dog. I've always had a connection with dogs. I've talked to more dogs on the streets of this city than humans, and I can say with eloquent conviction that dogs are my spirit animal, our celestial stars align and like they just get me, man.
I met a pup on the euthanasia list at Animal Control, took it under the pretense of fostering, realized I was delusional to think I'd be able to give away a face and tail like that, and officially adopted him. I'm impetuous and impatient and I crave instant gratification. I blame my millennial affliction. And Snapchat. But it brought me to Leo. And Leo is great. Sure he's left his dainty poops on my kitchen floor more times than Jason Derulo starts his songs by singing his own name, he's broken dishes, and he sneaks gum out of my purse like a crazed minty fresh junkie (I just need my chews, bro) - but in the midst of insanity he keeps me sane. He keeps my mind off the shit-soaked city that's lurking beyond my third floor walk up, waiting to rob me blind of my money and my happiness. He's a little ray of sunshine in my life of a-poor-excuse-for-a-hipster-that-doesn't-actually-want-to-be-a-hipster-on-second-thought.
And I'm WAY less hungover now that I have a living, breathing [pooping] thing relying on me. So here's to my dog in the city. You should come hang out with him sometime and talk him out of getting his own Instagram despite my raging disapproval. Which reminds me that you should also come hang out because it's been a solid 2 weeks since I've had interaction with anyone other than a dog.
