Fashion is such a far-reaching thing. It isn’t content with all that goes on a woman; it extends to all that goes around, under, and over her. It is responsible for her figure, her complexion, and her state of mind. It won’t even stop at inanimate things—it extends to her very dog. Fancy carrying a short full dog when Paris insists on long straight lines, or trying to combine a Louis XVI–style dog with a Moyen Âge gown—well, it simply isn’t done, that’s all.
But one need not despair. So many dogs are smart this season that a woman could really have a different dog for every gown in her wardrobe. There are chows, for instance. They are becoming to almost every woman. One may have a Titian-haired chow or a decided brunette, according to which is the better foil, and he is just the thing to put in the front seat of one’s motor, to fill in that awkward space left by any chance departure of the footman. Chows are most decorative, and they wear a puzzled expression that keeps one interested. One wonders what on earth they are trying to find out. Then, too, they are a shining example to the woman of flirtatious tendencies—the chow is a one-man dog.
If it’s the little things that count in one’s life, one might acquire a Brussels griffon. They are scarcely visible to the naked eye, but they are exceedingly smart this season. A griffon bears a startling resemblance to a small mop that has seen hard service; it is difficult to ascertain, at a cursory glance, which end is going to bark and which to wag.
But fashion isn’t content with a mere chow or two and a handful of griffons. All sorts and conditions of terriers are being done, this season—they are so smart, worn with tailored costumes. Airedales are so popular that they are almost overdone. One can not stroll down Fifth Avenue without encountering an affable Airedale every six feet or so. In color and texture, an Airedale is very like a shredded wheat biscuit. There is such a wistfully angelic expression in his amber-colored eyes that, at first, one fears that he will be snatched up to heaven at any minute; after one has known him for a while, one ceases to worry. He is far from graceful, his manner is absolutely unpolished, he has no savoir faire, and he just can’t make his paws behave. But he has a way with him—and scepters have been tossed aside for that.
Fifth Avenue is also densely populated with assorted Scottish terriers—all sorts and conditions of these uncanny Scots. They plod busily along on their utterly inadequate paws, with their overgenerous allowances of tail streaming proudly in the breeze. Their general air is that of those who are burdened with affairs of international importance, and who cannot be annoyed with merely local matters. On those rare occasions when they can be persuaded to sit, they do it with extreme care, neatly arranging their forepaws in the first dancing position. There is something about them that irresistibly reminds one of a fussy little old gentleman—the sort of old gentleman who writes to the newspapers about those disgraceful skirts the women are wearing.
But one need not despair. So many dogs are smart this season that a woman could really have a different dog for every gown in her wardrobe. There are chows, for instance. They are becoming to almost every woman. One may have a Titian-haired chow or a decided brunette, according to which is the better foil, and he is just the thing to put in the front seat of one’s motor, to fill in that awkward space left by any chance departure of the footman. Chows are most decorative, and they wear a puzzled expression that keeps one interested. One wonders what on earth they are trying to find out. Then, too, they are a shining example to the woman of flirtatious tendencies—the chow is a one-man dog.If it’s the little things that count in one’s life, one might acquire a Brussels griffon. They are scarcely visible to the naked eye, but they are exceedingly smart this season. A griffon bears a startling resemblance to a small mop that has seen hard service; it is difficult to ascertain, at a cursory glance, which end is going to bark and which to wag.
But fashion isn’t content with a mere chow or two and a handful of griffons. All sorts and conditions of terriers are being done, this season—they are so smart, worn with tailored costumes. Airedales are so popular that they are almost overdone. One can not stroll down Fifth Avenue without encountering an affable Airedale every six feet or so. In color and texture, an Airedale is very like a shredded wheat biscuit. There is such a wistfully angelic expression in his amber-colored eyes that, at first, one fears that he will be snatched up to heaven at any minute; after one has known him for a while, one ceases to worry. He is far from graceful, his manner is absolutely unpolished, he has no savoir faire, and he just can’t make his paws behave. But he has a way with him—and scepters have been tossed aside for that.
Fifth Avenue is also densely populated with assorted Scottish terriers—all sorts and conditions of these uncanny Scots. They plod busily along on their utterly inadequate paws, with their overgenerous allowances of tail streaming proudly in the breeze. Their general air is that of those who are burdened with affairs of international importance, and who cannot be annoyed with merely local matters. On those rare occasions when they can be persuaded to sit, they do it with extreme care, neatly arranging their forepaws in the first dancing position. There is something about them that irresistibly reminds one of a fussy little old gentleman—the sort of old gentleman who writes to the newspapers about those disgraceful skirts the women are wearing.
by Dorothy Parker, Lapham's Quarterly | Read more:
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