Waggery

June 30, 2005

Signe's dog boutique had its grand opening a couple of months ago. I went to congratulate her and see how the store looked, but I only stayed for about two minutes. Enough time to give Signe a peck on the cheek, say congratulations, and tell her "I like the wallpaper." She had it custom-made and featured a graphic rendition of her dog Shady's face. Shady's face happens to be the boutique's logo, which should come as no surprise since the name of the store is: "Shady's Waggery."

Not to be confused with "Waggy's Shaggery," which, judging from all the horned-up dogs out front, may have been a better name.

Signe's father had the best idea for the store's name, and I'm disappointed that Signe didn't go with it: "Dog Shit."

Signe had been understandably distracted, greeting customers and answering questions. The store, which is just a short walk from the Tompkin's Square Park dog run, was packed full of excited dog owners, pawing through the fancy leashes, clothes, toys, snacks, books, cards, et cetera. I wanted to buy something to be supportive, but since I'm not a dog owner, I couldn't find anything. I began to feel significantly out of place. Everyone was fawning over the "cute" and "adorable" things, comparing notes on different brands of dog food, and talking baby talk to the dogs in the store--some on leashes, and others cradled like babies. Everyone seemed fulfilled and consumed with dog love that, for a brief moment, I wondered if I was missing out on something.

As I left, I was greeted at the door by a pit bull straining at the end of a short leash. I had to step around him to get outside. He was wearing a day-glo orange vest with the words "Adopt me" in big black letters across its back. The guy holding the leash looked me in the eye and tried to gauge my interest. I bent down and patted the dog on the head, then quickly turned and headed down the street before I did something stupid.

Since then, Signe’s been too busy to do anything other than run the store. (I'm not sure that's exactly true, but hanging out with the likes of me is understandably low on her list of ways to spend her precious free time.) So when I met Brian for lunch in the East Village last week, I suggested we pop in.

Signe was on the phone when we entered, and while we waited for her to hang up, Brian and I took the opportunity to look around the small boutique.

"Heeey," she said when she hung up. "Good to see you. How are you?"

"I'm good. We were passing by, and I figured I'd stop by. This is my friend Brian."

"Hi Brian," she said. "I'm Signe."

"Where are all the pets?" Brian asked.  "What kind of a pet store is this? You don't have any pets?"

Brian had been excited to see cats and dogs and birds and fish. I didn’t realize I’d misled him by calling it a pet store instead of what it is: a store that sells sundry "cute" dog supplies. As I've mentioned before, Signe was -- and continues to be -- a stylist. A successful one at that,  working on movies and fancy magazines. As anyone who works in the fashion world can tell you, it can start to feel empty and meaningless after a while. Emptier than one filled with dogs, anyway. So now she spends her time working in the store and shopping for things to carry in it. Things like dog clothes to take the average city pet from office to evening. Or more casual, yet equally stylish, East Village duds  like this:

Shady. East Village Entrepreneur