At last the warm weather has arrived, bringing with it lush trees, garden seating, open-toed shoes and hordes of Manhattan dogs. They roam the streets by the hundreds in every shape and size, sniffing, barking and straining against all manner of leashes ranging from old twine to cashmere/silk blends with rhinestone borders. Considering my dogless state, all this sudden pooch exposure has left me with an acute case of dog-envy. Of course, the obstacles between myself and a new canine friend are considerable: Cat loathes all barking nemeses with a passion, while Boyfriend retreats to a dazed narcosis or magically receives a “super important phone call” the moment I bring up the subject. But, undaunted, I soldier on in my quest to obtain a dog of my own.

In the meantime, I quell my covetous desire by stopping for lengthy interactions with every dog I pass on the street. Great Danes, terriers, dachsunds, spaniels, specially-bred hypoallergenic puggles, I greet them all with the excessive glee of one who never has to mop slobber or carry turd-filled baggies to the nearest trash can. While I’ve formed close alliances with the dogs themselves, recognizing this Corgi from the grocery store or that toy Doberman from the park, I rarely if ever give a first glance to the owners. True, it’s somewhat rude, but acknowledging the actual person attached to the animals ultimately spoils the fantasy.

But now, walking down Ninth Avenue in the fading sunlight, I come across a human/canine duo that demands notice. First, as always, I see the dog, a grey and white Shitzu with flowing hair gathered in a jaunty ponytail above her eyes. She sports a leather collar with the Luis Vuitton “LV” logo, while each of her paws are enshrouded in matching brown leather booties. Then my eyes travel up the length of the shadow behind her. He’s tall to the point of comical, with reedy and disporportionate limbs dangling from his rectangular torso. He wears a navy blue three-button suit, jacket buttoned, and a light blue shirt with a collar so ridigly starched it digs into the folds of his neck (or, at least, it seems that way from my vantage point underneath).

Unconcerned by the fantastic contrast to her owner, the dog waddles to a discreet spot by a wrought iron gate bordering a church and sniffs, wiggling her rear end and bobbing her head. Then, in a circus-worthy move, she flips both hind legs out behind her and rests them against the gate, standing entirely on her front paws. I, and several other onlookers, gape in open shock as the dog proceeds to balances in a near-front handstand and daintily poop on the pavement below.

Her walker, visibly embarrassed by the spectacle, turns to me and says, “She won’t go unless she’s like that. She doesn’t like to have her back feet near the mess. My wife taught her how to do it.”

I wonder whether his wife also uses this method of body waste elimination, and thus taught the dog by example.

“Can she balance like that without the gate or wall behind her?” I ask in amazement.

“Not really. But you should see her do it when it snows. She can get completely vertical.”

I grin as the dog completes her task, shuffles her hind legs a few inches to the right and lowers them to the ground. Her owner bends his giant limbs to envelop the poop in a plastic bag, his face a mask of irritated distaste.

“Now all we have to do is teach her to use the damn toilet.”