Rescuing Smokey from a shelter was one of the best moves I ever made. For those who don’t know him, he’s a 30 lb. mutt mixed with black Labrador and who knows what else. (Who cares?) Life just isn’t complete without this little guy, the heartbeat of my humble Manhattan home.
This is a basic. Dog runs are not hotbeds of cleanliness, which means wearing comfortable garb that I don’t mind getting dirty or wet. The dog run can also be a gateway to Frumpytown, characterized by ill-fitting clothes from the ugly bin. My ego won’t allow it. I believe that the “I don’t care what I look like” aesthetic in public places, wherever and however employed, can start to quietly bleed into other areas, bringing us to our current state of guerrilla casual.
I’m not a fan of wearing shorts in the city, so I keep it light in the summer with easy and wearable classics that are never wrong: canvas Chuck Taylors, an old, light pair of chinos or cargo pants, and an old t-shirt or polo. Simple.
A typical Saturday morning with Smokey and Kiwi, one of his many girlfriends.
When I’m walking Smokey, people often ask me “What kind of dog is he?” Inquiring eyes still glaze over with incomprehension when I say he’s a “mutt,” or a “rescue.” If it’s not an identifiable “dog show” breed, many people don’t know what it is, which suggests that there is a lack of awareness about rescuing mutts from a shelter as a legitimate option. If you’re thinking about getting a dog, do yourself and a dog the best favor imaginable: get a rescue. Speaking from personal experience, I can – without hesitation – say that it’s the best thing I’ve ever done.
In my next life, I want to be my dog.
Dog sitting two monkeys whilst I amusedly peruse the clothes, accessories, gadgets, housewares and other aspirational offerings in a gentleman’s style magazine. It’s a giant “fuck you” to any man who doesn’t have at least six figures of disposable income, i.e. those of us in the 99%. Most entertaining.