Puppy privilege
On a recent visit to Nashville, I took my purebred Norwich Terrier, Pitkin, for a stroll. A twentysomething girl toting a yoga mat and an iced coffee squatted on the sidewalk to oblige Pitkin’s pleas for pets. “Oh my gosh, he’s soooo cute!” the girl said between babbles of baby talk. “Where did you get him?” “From a breeder in Oklahoma.” “Oh,” the girl scoffed. “I would never buy a dog.” She took her protein-deprived, sustainably clothed self away. Pitkin and I were left to face facts: we had just been dog-shamed. Buy a dog. Her glare made me feel as if I’d come by my beloved furry friend through the Middle Passage. Pitkin looked up to me and cocked his head. He seemed satisfied, but I was not. Was not even my dog immune from the self-righteous?
