The case of the straight men with the itsy bitsy quivering toy poodles.

It all started a couple months ago with one tiny frou-frou dog. Let me explain. I live in a condo primarily filled with snooty retirees who think renters, people under thirty, and condo residents that go out after 6:30pm are a vicious strain of bacteria that will bring property values down. I fall into ALL three of these categories so (understandably) they think I am Armageddon.

The day my roommate and I moved in, we were carrying an elephant sized bookcase into the condo when one of the residents came after us as if to assist us.
Resident: “Hey—excuse me!”
Us (grunting as we struggled to maneuver the bookcase, yet excited to greet our new neighbor): “Hi!”
Resident: “Please move your car from the loading dock—the residents don’t like cars there. Doesn’t look right.”
Us: “Well, right now we are MOVING IN which is why our car is parked at the LOADING DOCK. So until we finish, the residents can SUCK IT …UP.”
Okay fine—we didn’t say that. We were more like:
“Oh! Sorry! As soon as we are done (grunt, grunt) moving this bookcase (grunt, grunt) we’ll move the car! So sorry!”

Back to the story. The first couple of weeks after moving in I noticed there were about two tiny frou frou doggies living in the condo. One belonged to an outspoken, baldheaded resident on the first floor that could be regularly found complaining to building security about imaginary loud noises outside his door at 2am. The other dog—a tiny, trembling rat sized thing—belonged to a 70-year-old man with Woody Allen glasses that everyone firmly believes is a former ex-patriot.

Then something strange began to happen. Every morning and evening on my way to and from work, I started noticing the abundance of tiny frou frou dogs at our condo. They would be peeing in the bushes by the pool, shivering near the nets around the tennis court, tottering about in the elevators, or clumsily trying to jump into the dried out fountain near the guest parking lot. But what was even more intriguing than the sudden spike in the number of frou frou dogs was the similarity shared by the owners: They were ALL men. Really straight, “I don’t use dryer sheets because they are girly, I love watching football, memorizing sports statistics, and ogling cheerleaders” men.

How could this be? I wondered, while walking past a guy with sleepy eyes wearing a Red Skins jersey and holding onto the leash of his frou frou dog while it peed behind a bush at 7am. The men don’t seem particularly excited about the dogs—just irritated, embarrassed and inconvenienced. Which is understandable—there is nothing weirder than a macho guy walking past you while leading a toy poodle on a leash.

Obviously some of these men have live-in girlfriends or wives but still…quivering frou frou doggies? What about the rest of these guys?
AND, is this the new trend? The trend of the quivering frou frou dog? Have men just completely given up on masculine dogs? Understandably the constrained space in a condo limits the type of dog a person can get, but a Paris Hilton dog??

Is the era of the Jack Russell Terrier over? Or are the men in my building collectively getting some sort of 80 percent off discount + free Red Skins tickets deal from a local breeder that specializes in breeding miniature dogs with low self esteem?

Photo Credits
Tanakawho, Flickr