I recently started working at an upscale dog spa in Manhattan. The place is great - five floors of unbridled dog joy. One of the best aspects of the new job is that I am permitted to bring my dog to work. Luckily, my dog is small enough to come with me on the train. Not that my dog LIKES the subway at all. I mean, who can blame him: the awful smells, the loud trains, the shriek of the brakes. The poor thing starts to tremble the moment we get near the staircase.

I've gotten it down to an exact science now. My arrival on the platform is greeted with mixture of adoration and disgust. When finding a place to stand on the platform and then a seat on the train, I become an expert in human nature with only the subtleties of my fellow commuters to guide me.

There are those who start fake sneezing to let me know in no uncertain terms that they are allergic to my hypoallergenic dog and to stay away. There are those who roll their eyes, as in, "Oh great, another one of those nature-loving, tree-hugging, dog-having hippies again." There are the anxious, "PLEASE, sit next to me, I want to tell you all about my Tonto, what he eats, how often he poops and how one time, he ate a whole HAM." Then there are my personal favorites, the experts. They know the breed of my dog, the temperament, the origin of the breed, how I should feed Buster, train him, walk him, read to him, and which origami figures he'd like best.

I guess you can imagine why I leave him at home sometimes.