Feature Article |
How Rover Took Over
By Michael Schaffer
IT’S AN IMPOSSIBLY BEAUTIFUL SPRING SUNDAY in Rittenhouse Square. Temperatures are in the mid-70s. The sun is high in the blue sky. It’s one of those days when all of Philadelphia — or at least those segments of it that live in or flock to the hoity-toitiest neighborhood in town — seems to be on display. And amidst the revelers, there are 15 dogs and only seven children.
The kids, for the most part, are toddling around the Square’s fountain, their parents watching absently. The pets are a different story: Some trot on leashes held by owners; others sprawl at their masters’ feet. One dog is being escorted through the Square by a uniformed walker, a staffer from the nearby Rittenhouse, which offers the service to guests. A handful of non-tourist pups sit right there in their owners’ laps, the four-legged princes and princesses of Philadelphia.
When historians tell the story of how the dogs captured upscale Philadelphia, a major component will involve noting that the city didn’t have any children to defend it. With their demands on parental time and wallets, kids are perhaps the ultimate restraint on pet-pampering: How much time and money do you have to spend on specialized doggie caricatures, after all, when there are dance recitals to go to and college tuitions to save for? On the other hand, without kids, all that free-floating love — not to mention the guilt and anxiety and competitiveness that also drive us to consume goods, services and canine-massage therapies — can hone right in on Fido.
Call them the DIPPies: Disposable Income, Pampered Pets. Or just call them the people who make you feel guilty every time your dog eats, you know, dog food.
In fact, Philadelphia’s residential renaissance and its pet-industrial complex have identical demographics at the root of their success: empty nesters and late wedders, the childless and shameless. In Center City, where only about a fifth of married couples have children, the real estate come-ons beckon young couples to new rowhouses, and urge older buyers to give up that oversize spread in Moorestown in order to live the high life in a converted Old City loft.
The same folks, says Maureen Chambly, who runs the Club Canine daycare facility near Fitler Square, are driving sales of mango-scented pet shampoo and $2.50 doggie cupcakes.
“We want love,” she says. “We’re not having babies. Or, if we’re empty nesters, the kids are grown. We can make it happen by having a dog. … [People] have the nurturing instinct; it’s natural. So now they brag about how they spoil their dogs.”
Chambly has her doubts about whether this is a good thing — although her business surely benefits from the guilt felt by dog owners who leave their surrogate children at home all day. “People bring dogs to daycare not because they think the dog needs the outlet, but because they feel guilty,” she says. “But you did this because you wanted love. So you give them treats. Which spoils them.”
The kids, for the most part, are toddling around the Square’s fountain, their parents watching absently. The pets are a different story: Some trot on leashes held by owners; others sprawl at their masters’ feet. One dog is being escorted through the Square by a uniformed walker, a staffer from the nearby Rittenhouse, which offers the service to guests. A handful of non-tourist pups sit right there in their owners’ laps, the four-legged princes and princesses of Philadelphia.
When historians tell the story of how the dogs captured upscale Philadelphia, a major component will involve noting that the city didn’t have any children to defend it. With their demands on parental time and wallets, kids are perhaps the ultimate restraint on pet-pampering: How much time and money do you have to spend on specialized doggie caricatures, after all, when there are dance recitals to go to and college tuitions to save for? On the other hand, without kids, all that free-floating love — not to mention the guilt and anxiety and competitiveness that also drive us to consume goods, services and canine-massage therapies — can hone right in on Fido.
Call them the DIPPies: Disposable Income, Pampered Pets. Or just call them the people who make you feel guilty every time your dog eats, you know, dog food.
In fact, Philadelphia’s residential renaissance and its pet-industrial complex have identical demographics at the root of their success: empty nesters and late wedders, the childless and shameless. In Center City, where only about a fifth of married couples have children, the real estate come-ons beckon young couples to new rowhouses, and urge older buyers to give up that oversize spread in Moorestown in order to live the high life in a converted Old City loft.
The same folks, says Maureen Chambly, who runs the Club Canine daycare facility near Fitler Square, are driving sales of mango-scented pet shampoo and $2.50 doggie cupcakes.
“We want love,” she says. “We’re not having babies. Or, if we’re empty nesters, the kids are grown. We can make it happen by having a dog. … [People] have the nurturing instinct; it’s natural. So now they brag about how they spoil their dogs.”
Chambly has her doubts about whether this is a good thing — although her business surely benefits from the guilt felt by dog owners who leave their surrogate children at home all day. “People bring dogs to daycare not because they think the dog needs the outlet, but because they feel guilty,” she says. “But you did this because you wanted love. So you give them treats. Which spoils them.”
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