The Simple Life IV: Doggie Style

There is a scene in an old episode of "Sex and the City" where someone annoyingly asks a couple in their late thirties, "When are you guys finally going to have kids?" The woman dead pan returns with, "My husband and I decided to have really great furniture instead."

My husband and I have great furniture and are indifferent on having kids. I thought by now, after almost 11 years of marriage we would have at least one. One reason we haven't had a baby  might be because his brother has five -all under the age of 8. They are extremely cute however any length of time around them and I inevitably have spaghetti dangling from my shirt and want to chug Grey Goose like a cold bottle of Fiji Water on a hot day.

Nine months ago, my biological clock started ticking like a pipe bomb and I told Daddy Warbucks to get me preggers or get me a dog. Stat! You have never seen someone get on a computer and research something faster. He was going to great pains to find us the perfect dog as soon as possible. A friend of ours told us about Boykin Spaniels, who are super cute, smart, dark brown with yellow eyes, they shed minimally and only get to about 40 lbs. If you haven't heard of them (most people haven't), Google one. They are adorable. People give me grief about my "designer dog" versus saving a dog from the ASPCA, but I was set on a Boykin.

Sam arrived at the tender and scary age of 6 weeks, weighing just barely 4 pounds. I knew right away she was my baby at least until a human one comes along. Before her arrival I purchased three different organic cotton dog beds, a $100 Coach collar that would not fit her for 6 months, a $200 water and food bowl to match our modern home, and the best toys and snacks a dog could hope for. Sam would soon learn that she had been adopted by a dog's version of Brad and Angelina. As she grew bigger and settled into our digs, she quickly embraced lounging on the Barcelona chairs, silk coverlets, Jonahtan Adler pillows, and when outside swimming in our saltwater pool,  jumping from one Frontgate raft to the next.

While a great dog, I had to chase her little ass across the street to various neighbors homes (who I try to avoid) one too many times - and braless no less. Hence it was time for our little Shilo to go to boot camp.

In line with everything else, we have sent our little princess to the best money can buy. People actually fly their dogs privately to be trained by our trainer, who I now affectionately call "Rambo". Seriously, not only is poor Sam probably the canine equivalent of Private Benjamin at her doggie training school, but she is being trained by Sylvester Stallone. When I call him to check in on her, he gives me little to no information - reminiscent of a Stallone grunt. He says, "good", "fine", and "yep", meanwhile I am looking for a complete psychological analysis of her current state of doggie mind. Poor Sam is most certainly thinking, "WTF, was I that bad?"

She's been gone a week (4 weeks total!) and I have already sent her two care packages including a pillow from home sprayed with my Hermes cologne so that she doesn't forget my ultra-chic scent. Rambo did tell me she lays on it a lot. I am considering sending doggie bones form Dean and Deluca shipped ice-packed to her. 

Sam will have to continue to dream of life back in her doggie chateau while I continue to have visions of that scene from "An Officer and A Gentleman" where Richard Gere breaks into the plant and sweeps Deborah Winger off her white trash ass, and me doing the same to Sammie while Rambo shakes his head in the background. 

-Parker