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After meals, the pooch may have his teeth brushed with Happy Breath toothpaste or a new beef-flavored variety, then go out to be fitted for a hounds-tooth jacket, a gold bracelet, black lace panties, a lame evening gown, top hat and tails, Halloween outfit, caps, booties and pajamas. He may have his coat dyed to make him look younger, or work out on a jog-a-dog machine (at $575) to keep him in shape, or have his portrait painted in oils. There are clip-on diapers for parakeets, hairpieces and false eyelashes for poodles, snoods to keep bassets' ears out of the sterling-silver feeding bowl, bikinis, ski suits and sunglasses for vacationing types, earrings, mascara and nail polish in a dozen colors. On his birthday a pet can expect to receive blue or pink cards and summon his pals—on his own phone—for a birthday cake of liver with powdered-milk icing.
For cats, there are Prince Valiant suede tents, "powder-room screens," fiber-glass igloos and a Ko-Z Cat Cottage with pile carpeting, a sun deck, catnip bar and built-in mouse hole. For animals left behind by vacationing owners, pet motels and inns vie to offer such features as wall-to-wall AstroTurf, brass beds, Snoopy linen, piped-in music, color TV, bathrooms, beauty parlors, air conditioning, thrice-daily cookie breaks, and meals cooked to clients' specifications (including kosher diets). If the pet travels with his owners, there are guides listing only hotels and motels that welcome him.
Manhattan-based Pet Astrologers Geneviève and Christopher Cerf produce elaborate "caniscopes" for such superdogs as Dustin Hoffman's Subway and President Ford's Liberty ("As she grows older Liberty will really pour herself into her sexual relationships"). Los Angeles, which not unexpectedly is the epicenter of animalmorphism, boasts a special limousine service for pets, which is patronized by, among others, Redd Foxx's Saint Bernard and Efrem Zimbalist Jr.'s llama. There is even a pet boutique that will have a shaggy dog's excess fur made into a sweater in Scotland. Of all the cemeteries across the country that vie for the Loved One's remains, probably none celebrate death so elaborately or expensively as the Los Angeles Pet Cemetery at Calabasas, which could have been the scene of Evelyn Waugh's novel; there dogs that belonged to Lionel Barrymore and Rudolph Valentino are buried, and religious rites are routinely performed at the funeral. One expensive plot is occupied by a goldfish, another by a quail.
James Shanahan, vice president of Americana Hotels, feeds his nine-year-old dachshund, Clancy, filet of chicken topped off with a nip of Courvoisier. At night, before retiring to his own king-size bed, Clancy, in one of his 16 sweaters, trots over to the neighborhood pub, installs himself on a barstool and downs several vodka-and-creme de menthe nightcaps, considerately served up in a bowl. According to doting Owner Shanahan, Clancy is also "a great vocalizer and sings Happy Birthday to You all the way through." His principal charm, says Shanahan, is that "he has a broken tail and walks exactly like Jim Cagney."