I went to the Bark & Whine Ball last night at 8th & Brannan. This is the SF SPCA’s annual fancy-pants fundraiser where dogs and their people get all gussied up to eat tiny food and genteely sniff one another’s bottoms. My bus got stuck or something (or, as Jason might say, slipped off the solid gold roads my taxes pay for), so I wound up walking the six blocks to from Market to the party.
On the way, high-stepping in my sluttiest of cocktail dresses, I passed an urban tough of the typical genus: head shaved, pencil mustache, big black leather jacket. “Hey, little girl,” he called at me. “Hey, baby!” Alas for me, my standard reaction of full ignoring was compromised, as I was distracted by the tough’s dog, a tiny chihuahua rigged up in some kind of argyle dog sweater.
“Aww,” I melted. “Hey, little girl! Hey, baby!”
And so the cycle of abuse continues.
This is not my chihuahua.
