Dan's Papers -February 27, 2009 - Twentysomething

My Dad is on vacation for the next couple of weeks and has left me with the major responsibility of taking care of his dog, Moo. One of the most incredible things about being in charge of Moo, besides the endless bonding, is that it's an excellent excuse to go to the beach .

Moo, a Wheaton terrier, is very, very funny. He runs into walls, rolls down hills, wags his butt and jumps around.

Dogs make life better.

Before my Dad and Christine left for vacation, they gave Moo a professional grooming, which for Moo is pretty rare. Normally he looks a little scrappy, but now he looks like a million bucks, which I've noticed has an effect on people.

For example, I was at the beach one morning in Sagaponack before I went to work to take Moo for a walk. It was about 10 to 9 a.m., and at the beach in the freezing cold were three other people walking their dogs. It was clear that they were, for the most part, pretty rich. In the parking lot were a brand new Range Rover and a Mercedes Benz, and on the beach was a perfectly groomed Wheaton terrier and two black poodles, also perfectly groomed and galloping around.

I was dressed up for work and Moo was also looking groomed and handsome and the two of us got out of our car and went for a walk. I instantly got nervous however when I saw him running for the poodle. Normally when Moo does this, I get a vibe from the owners that they're a bit irritated by him and me. Nobody is ever rude or mean, I can just tell that they want to move on, they're not really interested in the normally scrappy Moo, or me either for that matter, since I'm usually dressed in some sort of surfing/band/hilarious t-shirt. Who is this kid with this rude and messy dog? How irresponsible!

But with a groomed Moo and a well groomed me, it was completely different. This couple bent down to pet him, rubbed his belly and scratched his ear and couldn't wait to strike up a conversation. "What kind of dog is he?"

"He's a Wheaton terrier, isn't he great?" I said with a smile.

"Oh he's wonderful. How old is he? He seems less active than a normal Wheaton terrier."

(I have no idea). "He's about 10 or so. He's getting up there."

It was getting near the time for me to get to work, but I was really enjoying the company of these people and the feeling that they thought I was loaded and in early retirement, or maybe a big city business owner who conducts his big deals from his big house in Sagaponack with his perfectly groomed dog - and not a writer on his way to work who's dog sitting for his Dad and has never owned or really cared for a dog in his whole life.

The couple and I stood next to each other and watched our dogs, like lords of the manor, as they pranced around, sniffed and spun. Things were good for us folks. What economy? What recession? We have dogs and they are good looking.

I could feel the time passing by and knew I needed to get to work, but was soaking in the feeling of being a groomed dog owner. I was in the club. Moo and I were not screw ups bothering the groomed dogs, we were sophisticated aristocrats, or aristodogs I mean, and we had it all figured out.

I didn't want the feeling to end, but I didn't want to be fake, so right before I left, I spilled the beans. "He's my Dad's dog, I'm watching him for three weeks while he's on vacation and he's almost never groomed. I better get going or I'm gonna get in trouble at work. It was nice meeting you."