Tel Aviv, Israel — So my future Israeli dog named Shev (meaning “sit” in Hebrew, won’t he be confused!) is a glorious creature that is half-collie and half-superhero. When I sit, wearing my Hugh Hefner burgundy robe in my room of leatherbound books in rich mahogany shelves, smoking my pipe in a beautifully upholstered chair, Shev will fetch me my Kindle because who reads print newspapers in the digital age? He will dutifully sit by my side smiling that good ole doggy smile, you know, the one with his tongue hanging just so out of the left side of his mouth, God bless him. Shev will also protect me from the scary street cats of Tel Aviv and the even scarier 20+ lb. cat, Kitoo, that my roommate owns which may be the reincarnated soul of Saddam Hussein. And most importantly, he will learn to sit on the back of my tus-tus motorbike with his front paws on my shoulder, howling as we ride off into the sunset.
But until my dream of Shev becomes a reality, I walk up and down King George every Friday afternoon, vicariously living through those lucky people adopting puppies. Craig here is just one of the little bundles of bark that are tied to the fence that separates the big central dog park from bustling King George street on Friday afternoons. It’s impossible not to stop and pet these (questionably inoculated) little pups and want to take one home with you, if, you know, you’re not afraid of scabies. Really, how can you say no to this face? The answer is that most people can’t, and thus, the genius behind Puppy Day (a.k.a. Friday).
At the end of the day, the mangiest ones are still left and people interested can foster them until the next week, when, inevitably they will have bonded too much and won’t want to give their little Shev back to the organizers so they adopt.
One day my fantasy of Shev will come true, but until then, we’ll always have Puppy Day.
1 year ago • 0 notes