Snausages

The chartreuse coat caught my eye first. Then her hand, lacquered nails daintily pointing skyward as her LV handbag dangled from her bent elbow. And then her high ponytail. She didn’t quite walk over to the corner as much as she societied over there. (Her walk was that of a woman trying to show that walking was beneath her, but oh, poo, she’ll do it anyway IF I MUST.) When I saw her profile, I was taken by her puckered lips, slathered in rich magenta. She was a riot.

And then I saw the frontpack. The doggie frontpack.

She turned to the side and there was this grey head coming out of her belly. For a moment I was enthused, thinking her plastic surgeon had missed one glaring, hairy growth smack in the middle of her torso. But no, it was the frontpack slung around her neck with her minipup chilling inside of it. She looked like John Hurt in “Alien,” except that instead of an otherworldly life form bursting forth from her chest, she was expelling a Yorkie.

Here’s the thing:

Walk your dog.

In my old age, I have developed very strong opinions regarding pet accessories. (I can’t believe I just said that.) Between the Fashionista Frontpack and Tori Spelling carting her pug around in a stroller, I lament a future of doggie go-karts, motorcycle gloves for paws, puppy earrings, kitty toe rings and bunny messenger bags. You cannot possibly tell me that animals actually LIKE these accoutrements. Have you ever seen a poodle in a cowboy hat who looks happy? You can’t look at your Maltipoo and say, “Fifi is just IN LOVE with how she looks and feels in this $250 bomber jacket!” while Fifi is gnawing at the collar and peeing all over her Bedazzled tutu.

I will concede a few points: Smaller animals don’t move as quickly as people do, so I understand the necessity of a doggie carrier for daylong jaunts. And some animals are so small and frail that they, unfortunately, do require clothes in colder weather. Josh’s friend Jill has a 12-year-old, very fragile, longhaired Chihuahua who, bless the little dude, will freeze to death without some kind of barrier between himself and the elements. This I understand.

This I do not understand:

1. Tiaras on pets.
2. Bikinis on pets.
3. Sweaters on pets who weigh more than five pounds, in weather warmer than 30 degrees.
4. Pseudo-stylish modes of transportation made solely for pets.
5. Hats for pets, under any circumstance.
6. The frontpack, when an animal would be far more comfortable in its natural, sitting, not-force-Björned position. Seriously, who is the sadist who invented the doggie frontpack?

A good theory to live by is that if you don’t allow your pet to walk, it will not walk. And you want your pet to walk. And your pet likely wants to walk as well. It also would probably like to run. That’s pretty much how that works.

Speaking of advocating the act of walking, I had a doctor appointment last Friday up near the American Museum of Natural History (i.e., the most beautiful building in New York City) and I had the rest of the day off, so I just walked. It was the most I Heart NY day. I started off on 81st and Central Park West and basically zigzagged my way south — going as far east as Union Square East and as far west as Seventh Avenue — to 14th Street so I could browse through the holiday market that’s set up every December in Union Square. It was roughly 80 blocks.

It’s days like that when I feel like a tourist, which I don’t mind at all because this city still inspires awe in me like it did on my very first visit when I was 13. Hell, I even meandered down Fifth Avenue to look at the always-spectacular Bergdorf Goodman holiday windows. (To clarify: A local voluntarily walking down Fifth Avenue the week before Christmas? An anomaly.) I’ll post my pictures soon.

Two things I didn’t get pictures of:

1. In Central Park, I walked past a maroon knit glove that had been run over by any number of people, cars, horses and carriages. I don’t know why I remembered it, but on my way to getting my nails done on 23rd Street and Seventh Avenue, I swear I walked past its mate in the middle of an intersection.

2. In front of the Plaza, there was a dance troupe doing a routine to “Eye of the Tiger.” Further down Fifth Avenue, another dance troupe was shakin’ it to “Eye of the Tiger.” I figured that they were part of the same team, but they weren’t wearing matching T-shirts (the required street dance troupe uniform) and seemed to have little else in common. I’m sure they represented the same group regardless — were they all going to get together afterward and see “Rocky Balboa”? — but in any case, I felt very 1982 and Clubber Lang–hatin’.