Big Dogs, Big City

How can I live in New York City with a giant dog? How can I not?

Anyone who knows me knows that I am a big dog person. This is to be taken in the most literal sense. I’m a big dog person. I like a dog that weighs in at at least 100 pounds. My first (and best ever) dog, Rex, was a modest eighty pounds, but my dogs since then have been gigantosaurs. Goose the Newfoundland (currently in the custody of my ex-husband) is about 140 pounds. Phoebe the Saint Bernard(ish), who passed away last year, was 110 pounds and built like a brick house.

Now I have another Newfoundland, Hugo. He’s ten-months-old and has probably just edged past one hundred pounds. What’s really impressive about him is his length. He’s thirty inches withers to rump, a boat of dog. When he stretches out on the bed, head on pillow, his tail hangs off the bottom. His paws are only slightly smaller than my hands.

Did I mention that Hugo and I live in New York City? Specifically Manhattan? Specifically in an apartment that you might call a studio pretending to be a one-bedroom? Are you calling the ASPCA yet?