When my day gets to be too much, on days such as this, when I am tired and grumpy and look like I got hit by a train, I think of the dogs, and it's all ok.

He cares only for his dad, who is hard at work in the gym. I never even get a look in.

He is timid, and sweet, and his owner is a jogger. I like to pat him (the dog, not the jogger), but he is not often easily accessible, and I must wait until he is attached to telegraph poles, waiting as his dad orders coffee.

I am not allowed to get overly excited when I see Wednesday. She wees. I squeal. Everyone is in trouble.

His owner is a woman who wears crops tops in the gym and watches herself in the mirror. I prefer dogs to those kind of people.

Jean. Jean! My love. Forlorn, with pleading eyes. I love him dearly. He is a Lasa Ahpso up for adoption, and had I the room, the balcony or the understanding landlord, Jean would be mine for all time.

She is resident dog of Gasoline. Aloof, she will accept my pats, but doesn't return the affection. And she doesn't want to be photographed lady, so eff off already.

I'm only marginally ashamed to admit that at this stage, my desire to be a skinny bitch not withstanding (it's not working), the only reason I go to the gym is because I hope there will be a pupski tied up at the door.

Is that so wrong?