What have I become?
I’m currently facing my first real crisis as a soon-to-be married man. Every day I arrive to the office, setup my MacBook Air, and immediately look down at my absurdly large iPhone 6 Plus to see what golden doodle Instagram pic I’ve been tagged in. It never fails. My future wife wants a dog, very badly, and she has adopted the sinister strategy of blowing up my ‘gram by tagging me in every Cockapoo, Cava-Tzu, King Charles, Labradoodle, Golden Doodle, or Cavoodle Instagram pic being showcased by affluent twenty-somethings with way too much time on their hands. It’s a bold strategy.
I’ll be the first to admit that my very existence is punchable. My phone is unnecessarily large, and my shorts are unnecessarily short. I drink whatever variation of a mule drink the newly opened gourmet southern cuisine restaurant wants to throw on their ungodly expensive cocktail menu. Each day that passes, I trend more and more toward pure yuppie scum. There’s only one thing that could push me over the edge:
A designer dog. And it’s going to happen.
It was inevitable
How could it not? Have you ever met a golden doodle that you didn’t like? If you answered in the affirmative, then you’re a complete and utter psychopath, or you’re just trying to be argumentative. Dick. There’s some kind of doodle variation that lives in the apartment above me, and if I didn’t think it would creep out his owner, I’d stop by daily just to get in some face time.
If you have a dog, designer or not, I’m going to stop, bend down, and pet your dog. If you have some wild ass little hound that jumps on guests, there’s no need to chastise the dog or apologize to me. I don’t care. That’s just a dog being a dog, and it doesn’t bother me.
The entire concept of a designer dog is ridiculous, so naturally, I need to take part. With a designer, you’re basically playing god. Looking for a best friend that a.) won’t trigger your allergies, b.) won’t shed, and c.) is just chill AF? You’ve got it. Or were you looking for something that can accompany you on a bird hunt, provide home security, but also won’t eat your newborn child? Got ’em. The possibilities are endless.
Should I rescue? Ideally, yes. But at the risk of being shamed even more than I currently am for wanting to take my business to a breeder, I’m just going to let you know that I’m not at the rescue stage of my life yet. I know, I know. I’m a monster, but the thought of going into a shelter and having to make eye contact with all of those dogs that I’m just not interested in is gut wrenching. I can’t even watch I Am Legend without skipping past that one certain scene near the end where Will Smith has to…you remember. Fuck that scene. Any movie that contains a sad scene with a dog should have its own special rating because I’m not trying to have my day week ruined by traumatic shit like a dog getting iced for no reason. So, yeah, I really like dogs.
Yes, one day I’ll live on a nice five-acre lot just outside of Fredericksburg, TX, and I’ll adopt every damn dog in the shelter. I’ll have an entire group named after each key member of the Soprano family and another group named after the ’96 Texas Rangers. I’ll take pictures of them laying on each other looking adorable and post captions like “#Squadgoals” and “This could be us but you playin.” But I’m not there yet. I need certainty with my first grown man dog, and I don’t think I deserve to be shamed for admitting that.
You can shame me for the inevitable creation of “Dude_thedoodle” on Instagram, or when I shamelessly fire off snaps at brunch on a patio with a 70-pound ball of fur with a red banana around his neck like he’s goddamn Willie Nelson, but don’t hate because I didn’t rescue.
So, the answer to my original question is yes — I am yuppie scum for wanting a designer dog. Sorry for being scum..
Image via Shutterstock