Puppy love

I have just been told by Mimi that she's really fond of me. As a matter of fact, she loves me so much she wants to put me in a bag and take me everywhere. Little psycho.
Stay in New York long enough (a couple of days should do it), and the impeccably attired pets (no, I do not refer to l'oreal ash blonde with boobs 4.0) will make you want to head back upstairs to raise your game. Call it the small mutt syndrome (sms); a congenital condition where kerchief size dogs only travel Balenciaga or Fendi, superciliously peering over pure leather rims at the plebians littering the parks. They know that size doesn't matter. Not when your wardrobe is the inspiration, nay, the occupation of Britian's WAG-in-chief. Come to think of it, she does have a piquantly puppy face and could easily fit into my Gucci clutch, but no, we'd have to leave her oversize sunglasses behind, and that would be tragic.
Does dog DNA permit superior smugness? Let me rephrase, if you're not a Russian wolfhound/similar, or more precisely, if you're only capable of reaching higher than human ankle level if it's (a) a child, or (b) a supine adult, could you sneer at humans? I'll bet these sms inflicted creatures know. I can feel their disdain from a distance, ears twitching with disapproval at my borrowed Kenneth Cole. It's positively insulting that these uber chic, Hermès scarf, Dolce & Gabbana t-shirt, Burberry raincoat & booties sporting sms' puppies won't even condescend to gambol over in my general direction as I meander along. I'll just save my sympathy for the munchling in retro gear galloping along just to keep up with its lackadaisically strolling keepers. Siiigh.... sm abusers. Invest in a Prada handbag already!