And Your Little Dog, Too

It's already happening.

Look: Used to be this.



And this.




But now it's this.




And this.




Used to be this.



But now, it's this.




Was this.



Now this.




This.



Then this.




Where have all the lapdogs gone?

There was a good six month period where Paris and Nicole and Britney and Christina and even little Kelly Osbourne wouldn't be caught dead without their toy chihuahuas or teacup terriers nestled in the crook of their non-dominant arm. The fad spread quickly, to the point where even the local SJP wannabes, faces made up like a Tara Reid blow-up doll, feet nestled warmly inside their Ugg's, could be found staggering up 9th Avenue under the oppressive weight of a 2-year old St. Bernard-Dachsund mix slung over their shoulders.

And then, *poof*, doggy go bye-bye, replaced by a hot new fiancee or an impending Federlinian or maybe just a new Berkin bag.

What is to become of this entire generation of abandoned miniatures, their organ systems left dessicated by generations of ill-advised crossbreeding, their hunting instincts blunted by tuna tartare, their pride compromised by feathers and rhinestones and Juicy Couture hoodies?

Even if one were to lowball their life expectancy, most of these trembling bundles of tentative joy still have a good six to eight years left in them - years that once held the promise of red carpets and limousines, but which now portend only dark walk-in closets, shoeboxes or, at best, the shame and humiliation of the maid's neighbor's daughter's cramped split-level in Chino.

Why, Paris? Why, Christina? Britney - why, y'all?

More importantly, will I - newly engaged, soon to be wed, future expectant father - lose sight of my own metaphorical lapdogs? These chihuahuas passed unscathed through fashion trends and media scandals, emotional upheavals and drug relapses. It was only when their owners found True Committed Love that they found themselves eating Alpo out of the can.

As I continue along the path of betrothedness and move ever closer to my final destination of eternal wedded bliss and bountiful parenthood, what unsuspecting and undeserving creatures will I sacrifice at my own Altar of Love? My friends? My family? My feisty independence? My good credit rating? My personal hygiene?

How does one accomodate love and all its trappings, while still saving room in one's Berkin bag for the Little Things?