Tranny Spotting

Having a pet is fulfilling. Having a new dog is fulfilling and eventful. Having a new puppy is fulfilling and eventful and challenging. Having a new puppy in a 3rd floor walk-up in Manhattan in January is – however heavy it may be on the fulfilling part - all of these things plus extremely tiring. The tiring aspect of course comes from a poor little creature with fear of cold and rain who gives the most heart-breaking whimpers at being forced to go kiki (we refuse to say poo poo, pee pee, or potty so have opted for the more aurally reasonable kiki) out of the comfort of warmth and HDTV. But the fatigue also comes from the mental weariness in having to hear everyone give their 2 cents on how to properly train the new member of your pack.

“No soft foods! He’ll get diarrhea!” “Take him where there's dirt to go poop.” “Your dog looks really cold!” Then there are the unmindful morons who bend down to pet him or make kissy noises or brilliantly proclaim, “There’s a puppy!” right at the moment when he’s finally decided to kiki and you have to start the waiting game all over again (Remember? It’s January in New York.). Mind you, these are complete strangers on the street who would never have thought they should utter a word to me until they saw at the end of a red nylon leash an adorable little opportunity to tell me what I was doing wrong. For every one of these schmucks, there’s at least five others who are sweet, calm, collected and reasonably coo at my puppy, telling me how cute he is and wishing us many years of enjoyment. These are the people I love. One person not in this category, was a character from this weekend who upon sight of said puppy, went into a tirade of how to properly raise a dog.

Picture it: it’s damp and chilly at 2:00 AM on Sunday morning following liberal helpings of vodka and liberating moments of karaoke at a bar down the street. You come home, scoop up your dog, lead the poor yawning and bewildered little beast outside for one last go at doing his business before bed, when, lo and behold, a vision in black stops to ask directions. This vision turns out to be a glamorously attired six-foot transsexual in elegant black slacks, a shaggy black fur coat that Josephine Baker would have LOVED, a black veiled hat, and immaculately applied cosmetics. After she spots the puppy and begins her lesson in dog training, your opinion of her shifts from glamorous to unending, unwarranted gregariousness.


“Oh, honey!” she said as a South American Soap Star might say. “Oh, honey! Do you leave your dog in those cages? No! You have to leave them een the bathroom with a – what are those? – a leetle fence blocking the door.” Bathroom? Oh. Okay. No natural light. Years of bleach and other cleaners all over the floor. Loose tiles waiting to be eaten or further destroyed. Brilliant. “And you can’t put a collar in heem! No nononononononono! He needs to wear a harness thingy. Those collars are [wags finger unapprovingly while shaking head and making tsk tsk tsk noise].” Is that so? I prefer harnesses, too. But he’s too young for one according to multiple sources. Thanks, though. Anything else? “And for treats? Cheese. They loooooooooove love love love cheese. I have four Pomeranians – yays! Four!!! – and they loooove the cheese. Don’t listen to what people say. Dogs are not lactose intolerant.” Oh. Okay. I’ll just discard those organic puppy treats he seems to love and give him some gouda. That should make for some lovely excrement.

My impatience wore thin rather quickly due to the cold and her lack of good advice so when she offered pet-sitting services, it was all I could do to not snort with laughter and say “No thanks, Auntie Mame. I think we got it covered.”

I love New York.