Dog-O-Ween When Pure E asked me to do a fluff piece on the Dog-o-ween festivities last month I had a hard time committing. Interviewing Dachshund’s dressed as a bag of jelly beans or a Great Dane as Brittany Spears looking Not That Innocent just didn’t seem right. I'm a serious journalist, an underdog reporter. No pun intended.
I found myself advocating for an animal’s right to maintain public dignity. At its core, wasn’t this event simply another opportunity for humans to de-dogify the canine species? Magazine 2; journalist 0. Was I licked? No. I decided I had to find some kibble or snausage that would expose these humans and their flagrant pet exploitation. I accepted the assignment. My calling card? Rover rover come on over. |
|
A typical overcast Seattle afternoon after a typical Seattle night of solid rain. Large puddles of water splished and splashed as soccer players pounded through using the nearest body for support. It appeared to be more a game of homoerotic rugby. Wetness flooded the adjacent play fields as if a levee had opened creating a mud bog to make any monster truck rally proud. Certainly the dog-o-weeners would have the good sense to keep Captain Underpants home due to the miserable conditions. But, alas, no. Smoke from a charcoal grill billowed into the hazy sky guiding me like a homing beacon to the Genesee Park off-leash walkway. Didn’t the pooches sense anything amiss while the smoldering hot dogs sizzled to perfection? Seems the wiener dogs at the very least should be a bit put off. One paw after the other I strode grudgingly up to the fence line that encircled the arena. The scores of people crowded in the oblong ring were more than I bargained for. My first target, a large black lab cross. His narrowness suggested a slight pointer presence. The Monster Mash boomed from an imposing stage-mounted stereo system. A device to open these gothic Olympic games. I approached. He wore a black sheet with a painted-on skeletal system.
“A Labrador exoskeleton?” I asked intelligently. The lab cross puffed up and stated,
“Hey, if I put on a dress I’d still look better than Lindsay Lohan.” I couldn’t disagree.
“A Labrador exoskeleton?” I asked intelligently. The lab cross puffed up and stated,
“Hey, if I put on a dress I’d still look better than Lindsay Lohan.” I couldn’t disagree.
Pugs dominated the event. A luau Pug, a Harley Pug, a Frankenstein Pug, and an Oscar the Grouch Pug complete with miniature can. Don’t ask me how they got him in there, but rest assured the Humane Society will hear about it. Information gathering in such a melee was damn near impossible. These creatures were acting as though they were competing for 'Best-In-Show' at Westminster. Watching the spectacle any onlooker could say this corner of the Columbian Way neighborhood was morphing into something more like the Rocky Horror Picture show.
The music played on. “Let’s do the Time Warp again,” rang out and I averted my eyes from a ghastly scene. Behind a copse of dwarf pines a miniature Doberman pinscher had mounted a frisky Pomeranian and began to juke her like there was no tomorrow. Where’s the supervision, people? I cantered across the arena and sidled up to a Bassett Hound with king’s robe and a pair of devil horns.
“Does your mom know you’re the anti-christ?” I quipped.
“Oh Hello,” he said taken aback. “My name is Ira.”
I stepped back most apologetically and figured I’d try my luck with the pit cross sporting a black wife beater that had, 'BITCHES LOVE ME' emblazoned across the back.
“Hey, I’m a bitch” I opened.
“Uh yeah, dork called. She wants her line back.”
Once again, I recoiled, rebuffed. My intentions were sinister I’ll admit, but couldn’t a bitch get some gossip? Throw me a bone, Fido. The event coordinator announced the final call to line up for the judging. A Wolf Hound in sheep’s clothing sauntering to the front. A quivering chihuahua in full police dress blues. A Yellow Labrador Retriever glowing, radiant in a pair of butterfly wings and matching antennae. A Scottish Terrier in a Superman costume his small chest puffed out as though he were a mountain of muscle. A rat terrier as a red-cloaked, jester-hatted Pied Piper complete with a train of grey rubber mice. What was really going on here? Maybe I was approaching this all wrong. These dogs weren’t feeling exploited, they were loving every minute of it. The humans fawning over them. The oooh’s. The ahh’s. The “oh my gosh, look at Trixy here. Isn’t she simply divine?” Noses raised sniffling for rarefied air. And all the good loving going on in the hedge row couldn’t be ignored, either. I sat back astonished letting this new point of view sink in.
I was startled from my ruminations when a bigger-than-life Burmese Mountain Dog nuzzled in next to me and, in a voice similar to Anthony Hopkins (my idol), said, “and what might you be this afternoon my darling?”
I leveled my sexiest Visla stare, “A reporter. You?”
He looked completely comfortable in a leather bomber jacket, flying cap, and blue-rimmed shades. He glided around toward my tail for an introductory sniff. “You know me,” he said, his tone mixing equal parts mystery and familiarity. “I’m your co-pilot.”
We discussed his large scale marketing of a multi-million dog advertising campaign. No worries, I got his digits. I’m in like flint and also happily eating crow. I stand corrected. The freak-fest that is Dog-o-ween is simply and utterly fabulous. Not that there won’t be a few strange new breeds on the street come springtime, but what’s wrong with a Laberdoodle here and a Pomerpinscher there? As long as they’re doing it doggie style what do we care?
Happy Dog-o-ween and cheers from the Seattle Underground Street scene.
The music played on. “Let’s do the Time Warp again,” rang out and I averted my eyes from a ghastly scene. Behind a copse of dwarf pines a miniature Doberman pinscher had mounted a frisky Pomeranian and began to juke her like there was no tomorrow. Where’s the supervision, people? I cantered across the arena and sidled up to a Bassett Hound with king’s robe and a pair of devil horns.
“Does your mom know you’re the anti-christ?” I quipped.
“Oh Hello,” he said taken aback. “My name is Ira.”
I stepped back most apologetically and figured I’d try my luck with the pit cross sporting a black wife beater that had, 'BITCHES LOVE ME' emblazoned across the back.
“Hey, I’m a bitch” I opened.
“Uh yeah, dork called. She wants her line back.”
Once again, I recoiled, rebuffed. My intentions were sinister I’ll admit, but couldn’t a bitch get some gossip? Throw me a bone, Fido. The event coordinator announced the final call to line up for the judging. A Wolf Hound in sheep’s clothing sauntering to the front. A quivering chihuahua in full police dress blues. A Yellow Labrador Retriever glowing, radiant in a pair of butterfly wings and matching antennae. A Scottish Terrier in a Superman costume his small chest puffed out as though he were a mountain of muscle. A rat terrier as a red-cloaked, jester-hatted Pied Piper complete with a train of grey rubber mice. What was really going on here? Maybe I was approaching this all wrong. These dogs weren’t feeling exploited, they were loving every minute of it. The humans fawning over them. The oooh’s. The ahh’s. The “oh my gosh, look at Trixy here. Isn’t she simply divine?” Noses raised sniffling for rarefied air. And all the good loving going on in the hedge row couldn’t be ignored, either. I sat back astonished letting this new point of view sink in.
I was startled from my ruminations when a bigger-than-life Burmese Mountain Dog nuzzled in next to me and, in a voice similar to Anthony Hopkins (my idol), said, “and what might you be this afternoon my darling?”
I leveled my sexiest Visla stare, “A reporter. You?”
He looked completely comfortable in a leather bomber jacket, flying cap, and blue-rimmed shades. He glided around toward my tail for an introductory sniff. “You know me,” he said, his tone mixing equal parts mystery and familiarity. “I’m your co-pilot.”
We discussed his large scale marketing of a multi-million dog advertising campaign. No worries, I got his digits. I’m in like flint and also happily eating crow. I stand corrected. The freak-fest that is Dog-o-ween is simply and utterly fabulous. Not that there won’t be a few strange new breeds on the street come springtime, but what’s wrong with a Laberdoodle here and a Pomerpinscher there? As long as they’re doing it doggie style what do we care?
Happy Dog-o-ween and cheers from the Seattle Underground Street scene.
