Having Their Day How is it that Los Angeles has become such a good place to be a dog of leisure? May 16, 2002 For a long time I believed that there was something basically freakish about dog people. My personal list of People to Avoid included those who mispronounce the word " nuclear," fans of Celine Dion and anyone who thought I'd be the slightest bit interested hearing about his prize terrier's macrobiotic diet. The first two stand, but let's just say I'd probably trade recipes with the third guy. I was forced to rethink my prejudice three years ago, when I found myself suddenly obsessed with the training, grooming, socialization and all-around well-being of a somewhat spastic floppy-eared puppy named Rufus. Rufus arrived in my life shortly after my wife and I began to talk about having kids. "Get a dog first," a friend advised. "Make sure you don't kill it." A week later my wife brought home a stray pup of mysterious breed (shepherd? malamute? coyote?) with an ear infection and a mangy coat teeming with fleas. After cleaning her up and doing a quick check of her nether region, we settled on the name Rufus. (Only later, long after the name was established, did we discover we'd confused its female bits for male ones.) Rufus quickly introduced us to such riveting subjects as crate training, carsickness and coprophagia (don't ask). But the most surprising discovery was that something strange and quite sudden happened to the entire city when we weren't paying attention: Los Angeles had turned into a dog town. Everywhere you go, dogs and people are doing things that a few years ago would have seemed bizarre and sometimes downright rude. Dogs are scrounging for scraps at outdoor cafes, trotting happily into doggie day spas and massage parlors, snoozing underfoot at dog-friendly offices and romping ecstatically at one of the several new leashless dog parks. Some are even curling up at patio bars: "A gin and tonic for me and a bowl of water for the blond at the end of the bar." If many of us grew up regarding dogs as furry pieces of property, we're now treating them like temperamental toddlers. As companions, play pals and fetishistic status symbols, dogs occupy a bigger role in our lives than ever before. My own story started innocently enough, with daily trips to the dog park and the purchase of chew toys, doggie vitamins and "human-grade" dog food. Next thing I knew I was spending half the day chasing a blur of slobbering fur around the house while wearing a fanny pack stuffed with beef liver and memorizing entire passages from a puppy training manual written by a religious order called the Monks of New Skete. At night, while Rufus rested her head between her paws on her plush sheepskin bed, I would pore over her photo album, marveling at her development from mangy wild animal to coddled family member. I was especially fond of a photo of a freshly groomed and grinning Rufus wearing a T-shirt printed with the motto "Bone to be Wild." I am not proud. I realized I'd crossed over into a strange new world the weekend my wife and I checked Rufus into a "canine country club" in Sun Valley called Paradise Ranch. Complete with four-post beds, playgrounds and a wading pool, it turned out to be a notch or two nicer than the B&B where we were headed. It might have seemed like a faddish novelty at the time, but Paradise Ranch was just the logical extension of a trend well underway. The city's first doggie day care, a deluxe West L.A. kennel-cum-spa where dogs enjoy pampering and playtime while their owners toil at the office, opened in 1996. Today there are doggie day cares all over L.A., each with a cutesier name than the last--the Loved Dog, the Grateful Dog, Camp Happy Dog, Chow Bella, Hollywood Hounds, Chateau Marmutt and Bow Wow Bungalow. Meanwhile, we've seen the arrival of dog boutiques and dog bakeries, dog masseuses and dog acupuncturists, dog portrait artists and dog perfumes. At Neiman Marcus, salespeople look the other way as poodle-clutching grandmas pass women being tugged by loping Great Danes. The family of Beverly Hills dad Ozzy Osbourne, a guy so unconcerned with animal welfare he famously bit off the heads of a dove and a bat, recently employed a dog therapist to help soothe the family litter. There's even a political crusade, with dog owners banding together to fight for canine civil liberties. "It's a revolution," says Daryl Barnett, president of Freeplay, a Venice-based group that is seeking to establish L.A.'s first off-leash dog beach. "It's like civil rights or women getting the right to vote." Though the city is still beset by an epidemic of stray dogs and a shocking frequency of euthanasia (40,660 dogs will be put down this year, according to the L.A. Department of Animal Regulation), dogs in the upper ranks of the socioeconomic food chain are basking in newfound luxury. We Angelenos like to think of ourselves as trendsetters, but it looks as if we're behind the pack here. A doggie day care called Yuppie Puppy was catering to guilt-ridden New Yorkers nine years before L.A. got its such facility. And those in the dog business point to several cities as possessing better dog amenities (Portland, Ore., is famously dog-friendly, as are Alexandria, Va; Key West, Fla.; and Aspen, Colo.). And although there are more dogs in California than in any other state (6.8 million, according to the American Veterinary Medical Assn.), the concentration of dogs is actually quite low in Los Angeles (19% of L.A. homes include dogs, according to the Humane America Animal Foundation, compared to the national average of 39%). We may be a small party, but no one is whooping it up more. Portland may have its perks, but it sure doesn't have anything like Fifi & Romeo, the Beverly Boulevard boutique that sells beaded cashmere sweaters for dogs (cost: $225) in a store surrounded by Pucci mannequins, tasseled draperies and pink-striped walls. Dogs wander around like the savviest of shoppers, some hopping in and out of sleek vinyl "doggie bags" or curiously nuzzling a display of wool dog sweaters. Co-owner Penelope Francis says she began creating swank dog fashions three years ago, when she went searching for something to keep her pet Chihuahua, Peanut, warm. "I kept saying to myself, 'I wouldn't wear that,'" she says. "Why would I put that on my dog?" That's it in a nutshell--for many of us, dogs have become natural extensions of ourselves. Paul Owens, who runs a Burbank training school called Raise With Praise and is one of a few self-proclaimed "dog whisperers," says Angelenos are "awakening to a new consciousness about dogs." So, the thinking goes, if I wrap myself in embroidered cashmere, enjoy a weekly massage or make it a point to avoid partially hydrogenated oils, why shouldn't my dog? Setting aside for a moment the question of whether this is flaky anthropomorphism or an evolved expression of kindness--I know what side Peanut would be on--I wonder, simply, why? Certainly there's a long Hollywood tradition of treating pets like royalty. Everyone from Audrey Hepburn to Halle Berry has traipsed around town cradling well-coifed toy breeds with tummies quivering beneath snug sweater vests. But when did so many of the rest of us start acting like pampered starlets? What happened in a few short years to suddenly elevate the status of an entire species? The shift has been fueled by three of the most powerful forces in Los Angeles: love, vanity and envy. First of all, for very practical reasons, we Angelenos are uniquely positioned to love our dogs like no one else. In a city filled with actors and writers, independent contractors, privileged layabouts, struggling freelancers and others working sporadic or stay-at-home jobs, our attention is naturally drawn to others with flexible schedules. A trip up to the off-leash park at Runyon Canyon in Hollywood on a weekday afternoon reveals dozens of these full-time love affairs in full bloom. At an hour of the day when less fortunate dogs are snoozing in their backyards, the mountain park swarms with dogs of all sizes and descriptions: dogs in jaunty kerchiefs and dogs in yelping packs. Trailing behind, their human companions whistle and shout words of praise or correction, as impassioned as parents at a soccer match. Part of the reason we Angelenos have become so infatuated with dogs is that they're just so darned sincere. In social circles often held together by loose or superficial bonds, dogs offer uncomplicated, unconditional relationships. In short, doggies don't air-kiss. That's certainly helps explain typical L.A. love affairs like the one between Claude Dauman, who owns the Internet swimwear company www.bestswimwear.com and a half-Pekingese, half-poodle named Mallie Munchkin. Working at home, Dauman devotes much of his time and attention to Mallie. He feeds her a strict diet of cartilage-enriched kibble and cooked chicken chunks, hosts a fan Web page devoted to his "life partner" (www.malliemunchkin .com) and eases her trip to their bed with a custom staircase complete with carpeted steps. "She's the alpha in this family," he says. "I don't want to sound like a psychopath, but sometimes I get the feeling she thinks of me as her extremely large offspring." And as his Web site makes abundantly clear, Dauman isn't shy about letting the world share his love. That's also one of the other particular attractions of dog ownership in a city that places such a high premium on good looks and sociability. Even when you're feeling dumpy, antisocial or downright surly, a happy dog can't help but be charming. I'm sure the owners of the supermodel Weimaraners and spunky springer spaniels I see parading around the dog park feel genuine affection for their animals, but don't you sometimes suspect that the real appeal for the owners is all the attention they attract? You could say this is superficial or sad, but I'm not so sure. We Angelenos too often stay stuck in the same small orbit; if our dogs allow us to explore new parts of the city or attract the attention of people we wouldn't ordinarily encounter, I say hooray. "Everywhere I go with my dog, people immediately let down their guard and come rushing up to me," says Los Feliz photographerLara Jo Regan. "It doesn't matter if it's in an Armenian neighborhood or Beverly Hills, people just come out of their shells." It helps to know that Regan has perhaps the cutest dog on the face of the planet: Mr. Winkle, a Pomeranian mix with a permanently lolling pink tongue. In a modern twist to the old Hollywood fairy tale, Regan plucked Mr. Winkle off a roadside in Bakersfield and made him a star, attracting a cult following on a Web site (www.mrwinkle .com) and parlaying his fame into the sale of calendars and T-shirts and a book deal with Random House. Regan says she's often approached by people in L.A.'s suddenly booming dog business, offering free designer get-ups, day spa passes and therapy sessions. To Regan, such services reflect "enlightened new thinking" about dogs. "I think it's reasonable and not at all kooky," she says. "People are becoming aware that animals are sentient beings with real souls. It's horribly egocentric to think we're the only ones who enjoy ourselves or get depressed or have special health needs." Clearly, though, not everyone investing in the extra TLC is so enlightened. Dogs may be sentient beings, but they're also status symbols that simultaneously set their owners apart from some and signal allegiance to others. The Hydrant Cafe in Venice is a perfect place to watch people and dogs sniff one another out. At the deli counter, which naturally is filled with baked goods made for canine palates, a Chihuahua is on its hind legs, yapping hysterically at a Pomeranian. Without a word, you can tell that the frantic pair standing nearby think of themselves as sophisticated, sassy and perhaps a little indulgent. Meanwhile, outside, others sit quietly sipping lattes, their Labradors and shepherds lapping up bowls of "frosty paws" ice cream. As much as their clothing or cars, these customers have silently transmitted their own MO: domestic, down-to-earth and maybe a little conservative. Then there's a whole separate distinction attached to mutts. The mangier and more mixed up the breeding, the more honorable the owner. "It's a badge of honor to have a rescue dog," says Karen Rosa, communications manager for the American Humane Assn. "It's multicultural, and what could be more L.A. than that?" With so many of us babying our cars and obsessing over our clothes, is it any wonder we've become so sensitive to the cachet of the canine? Status is a major factor drawing pet owners to the year-old Bow Wow Bungalow, a toy-filled doggie day care in North Hollywood that could pass for an exclusive preschool for unusually mouthy children. Co-owner Brie Campbell says she suspects many of her customers drop their dogs off in part for the image it projects. "The main reason they're doing this is so they can tell their friends about it," she says. "In L.A., dogs are an accessory. People want to be seen as cool and caring." Ouch. All this thinking about the status and pampering of dogs is suddenly making me very uncomfortable. What does it say about me and my wife that we chose a sexually ambiguous, possibly feral mutt as our social status symbol? And what was the real reason we took Rufus to Paradise Ranch: to give her a taste of luxury, or to give us bragging rights? In any case, it's hardly worth fretting over such questions anymore. The fact is that our infatuation with Rufus didn't last so very long. It came to an abrupt end the moment another small messy creature arrived in our home. The birth of our son Charlie ended Rufus' reign. And the arrival of another competitor for our fickle affections--this one a girl-child called Eliza--further diminished the dog's hold on us. I'm not saying we love Rufus any less now, but she definitely gets less tangible proof of that love. Trips to the dog park have become less frequent. The $45 bags of Eukanuba Lamb and Rice Formula have been replaced by bulk sacks of kibble from Costco. The only new chew toys she gets are those she snatches from the nursery. Dog vitamins, once a staple, are now given on a whim. About the only advantage for Rufus is all the mashed-up peas and carrots suddenly raining down from on high. Like so many other Angelenos, our dog was a tryout for actual children (they are just as commonly an aging baby boomer's replacement for a bird that's left the nest). Fifi & Romeo's Penelope Francis says she laughs when she hears one of her customers is pregnant. "I know I've just lost a customer," she says. She cites Rosie O'Donnell and Madonna, both public dog fanciers whose pups became invisible once they had kids. "What ever happened to Madonna's dogs anyway?" she asks. For her part, Rufus staged just one small protest. Two weeks after Charlie was born, I woke up in the middle of the night to find her skulking around the nursery, wide-eyed and whining. There, carefully arranged in a crude swirl on the new baby-blue carpet, were five steaming demonstrations of her feelings about her sudden descent from heavenly creature to lower life form. I know I should have disciplined her, but it just wasn't in me. All I could think was, fair enough, Rufus, fair enough.