On Saturday afternoon, we went down to Woofstock on King Street. For one day each year, they close off about three blocks of the street, giving it over to dogs and dog lovers. It’s billed as a festival for dogs, but really it’s a retail trade store targeting those of us who own dogs. No matter, it was a beautiful day and a great opportunity to see armies of both people and dogs.
As usual, there was an over representation of muscular gay men with hulking Great Danes, and older women in muumuu’s. Invariably, these women were heavy and driving one of those motorized scooters, most of them with a small costumed dog–also obese– dog sticking its head out of a basket.
Instead of there being activities for the dogs, the streets are lined with kiosks selling dog-themed products. One enterprise was shilling sofas for dogs, for around $300 or $400, with the idea being that since you didn’t want the dog on your couch, you may as well buy him his own. I made a sarcastic crack to a man standing next to me about this being a “good” idea, and he just beamed. Nodding his head, without a trace of reciprocal sarcasm, he said, “ I bought one last year, they’re absolutely great!”
Another company called “Pawbearer” was selling urns, for around $700, with model names like “Dr. Bubbles” and “Bones” for your deceased pet. There was also a dog play area, which you paid for by the hour, like parking. It was essentially a gazebo/cage– with a strip of Astroturf and a Seesaw inside it– that was about the size of your bedroom. Inside, a few dogs ran around in frantic circles, searching for their masters who had likely gone into a bar to have a drink.
The festival was a huge boon to most of the surrounding businesses, and when I popped into Second Cup to get a coffee, the line-up stretched to the door. A heavy gay man was working the cash, and although he feigned a rather dramatic exasperation, it was clear that he was having the time of his life. He had a team of four African women making all the drinks and restocking the shelves, while he shouted out whatever order was placed. An elderly man says “ medium, green tea, please,” and then the cashier screamed it out at the women who were working around him. As ridiculous as this may sound, everybody was in a good mood and enjoying themselves. The cashier, feeling efficient and witty, kept the line moving, while “his girls,” trading secret smiles with one another, happily did all the heavy lifting, amused to be getting the job done on their own, in spite of their bosses more flamboyant efforts.