Please, Look at This Woman Walking Her Dog From a Rolls-Royce
It’s Los Angeles, man.
The rich are different from us. They fly on smaller, better jets. Most things in their lives smell like lavender. And, when they walk their dogs, they do so down Beverly Hills’ lushest boulevard, through the window of a Rolls-Royce Silver Spur II. Twenty years ago, in the country’s most famous zip code, “walking the dog” meant “watching the dog trot as I feather the throttle of a $190k British luxury saloon with my Gucci loafer.” C’mon, Rocky, this is your grand shit parade; the least a human can do is stay comfy.
There’s something sweetly old-fashioned about this notion of dog ownership. Darling, I love you, but you’re a dog and this is Connolly leather. Now, we’re in the age of doggie physical therapy and puppy Prozac and oh, dear lord, JFK Airport is seriously getting a freakin’ pet terminal. It’s nice to recall a time when mutts were recognized for what they are: Fuzzy, lovable parasites who, thousands of years ago, astutely and pragmatically observed that consenting to human affection yielded delicious table scraps and protection from the elements. Dogs are not children. They are domesticated beasts. And they belong far from the burled walnut.