My Puppy Is a Local Celebrity
My wife found herself standing in line behind Adam Sandler at a New York drugstore last year. Two things are remarkable about this. First, Adam Sandler goes to the drugstore? If I had “The Wedding Singer” money, or even “Punch-Drunk Love” money, I’d pay someone to pick up my prescriptions. The second detail that stood out was how serious Mr. Sandler is about the task of being famous. As he was trapped in line, people came up asking for selfies. Billy Madison graciously posed and smiled each time. I hereby forgive him for “That’s My Boy.”
This year I’ve gotten a taste of how exhausting it must be to be famous. How many times have total strangers interrupted Mr. Sandler’s day and demanded a chunk of his time? Thousands, certainly. Hundreds of thousands? Possibly. I wonder about this because I recently became Adam Sandler. These days, every time I leave the house, I get accosted by strangers. “Hi!” they say. And “Oh, my God!” and “So cute!” and “How old?”
“Fifty-seven,” I tell them.
More to the point, the squirming puppy in my arms is a world-charming 6 months. Everyone wants to stop and interact with our neighborhood superstar: Phoebe, an adorable cavapoochon. One parent is a poodle, the other a mix of a bichon frisé and Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. With her button eyes and curly apricot fur, she looks like a toy, and passersby sometimes even call out, “Is that a teddy bear?” My two daughters demanded a cute puppy; I overshot the mark and inadvertently brought home the cutest puppy.
Exercising Phoebe is a Sandlerian experience. Often, especially on her last walk at 11:30 p.m., I’m not feeling particularly friendly, and my clothes tend to get caked in muddy paw prints. No matter how surly I feel, though, I have to deal with what my kids call the puparazzi: the Upper West Side neighbors who treat our dog like a celebrity.
People giggle and offer treats. They marvel, “Such puppy energy!” I know, and I wish Phoebe had a bit more 57-year-old movie-critic energy. Sometimes people declaim on unrelated matters. On Sunday a fellow stopped to admire Phoebe and began telling me about various places he liked in Yonkers. I’ve never set foot in Yonkers and probably never will, but thanks for the tip, sir.
Becoming Adam Sandler has made me realize something I wouldn’t have previously guessed: Even famously grumpy New Yorkers are warm and friendly if you give them an excuse. Hardly anyone passes by without sharing at least a smile, and everyone wishes me well. Dogs bring out the best in people. And thanks to Phoebe, I now know exactly what to do in Yonkers.
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