It Must Be Nice To Be a West Village Dog

New York City’s West Village is the first place in my life where I could be truly myself. It’s where, having moved from my home state of Missouri at 22, I could be fully out as queer — mostly at the iconic West 12th Street lesbian bar, Cubbyhole. It’s where I met the people who are my family.

But that was 2015. In 2025, the West Village is still gay, let’s be clear. But there’s something else going on. On the first Saturday of May, I was standing in line outside of Marie’s Crisis, the Broadway piano — and obviously incredibly campy and gay — bar with a couple of friends when I saw them. The 20-something women walking en masse in light-wash jeans, white tank tops, and white sneakers. 

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As I walked around the village that night, I saw groups of mostly white, blonde women wearing the same or similar uniform, with a variance on their footwear, though usually sneakers or high-heel boots. “Should I get a white tank top and light-wash jeans?” I said to my best friend, who looked at me like, Remember you are 33 years old and no longer easily influenced by Regina George.

For a second, though, the fog of influence enveloped me, and I wondered what that was about. Two days later, The Cut published “It Must Be Nice to Be a West Village Girl,” a cultural study on the kind of woman who has taken over the neighborhood: “They move through the neighborhood in packs, wearing the local uniform: a white tank, light-wash jeans, and Sambas, an iced matcha latte in hand, and hair slicked back into a tight ponytail.” 

As I immediately delved into the story, looking for an explanation for my temporary Saturday-night psychosis, I particular image caught my eye, fourth on the carousel here: a pair of legs under a table full of Aperol spritzes  — naturally — framing the face of a caramel-colored Doodle breed. This dog, I sh*t you not, looked like they were staring straight into my soul the way my high school bullies used to. I half expected them to break into a whispered chorus of “she so does not deserve to be on Homecoming court” with their table mates. Suddenly, I was far more interested in another species than I was that of the West Village Girl: the West Village Dog. 

These are the dogs who, much like their humans, own their corner of Manhattan. They are usually some kind of designer breed — a pampered Doodle like our friend above, a mouth-breathing French Bulldog, a waddling Long-Haired Dachshund, a puffball Pomeranian, a tear-stained Maltese, a trembling Yorkie, you know the deal. This isn’t to say some of them didn’t come from shelters or purebred rescues; I don’t know their lives. And of course I love them, as I do all dogs, and I say an audible “hello” to each one as I pass.

But these pups usually end up as de facto “creators” on their moms’ Instagram accounts (or who have their own like Duke the Golden or the pups on this dog walker’s account) and are often sporting $200 Lingua Franca sweaters in the winter with matching Wild One walking sets. They sit primly on their parents’ laps outside at Dante while their bodies no-doubt process their high-quality fresh dog food and array of supplements. 

Don’t get me wrong: I’m happy for them. I love to see a pup living their best life. My own relatives live near the West Village, and their eight-pound white dogs cock their heads when they hear the word "prosciutto," so I’ve observed the elevated canine life. But just as I find myself inexplicably jealous of these wannabe Carrie Bradshaws, I am even more envious of the dogs who, while not always owned by 20-somethings, look just as much the “It Girl” as they do. As the article points out, the West Village no longer belongs to artists living month-to-month, but rather to those who can afford a studio apartment that’s close to $4,000 or more. So, it makes sense that their pet budgets might be a tad wider than your average Brooklynite with a roommate or three.

What must it be like to take a daily walk from Zoomies Biscuit Bar (there are chandeliers, folks!) to Cafe Cluny for a nice drink out of their silver doggie water bowl? I would love to delicately nuzzle my latest $40 toy from the comfort of a Louis Vuitton dog bag while my mom adds to her charm bracelet at BeamBar. Or maybe my carrier of choice is something affordable but perhaps more Instagrammable from Vetreska.

If I were a West Village dog, I imagine I’d never be constipated because my probiotic regime would be so tight, my bowels never would be. My coat would be pristine and my nails regularly buffed. I may still have endless anxiety as I do now, but I’d have a choice of at least three stress-relief dog beds to ease my mental health and my joints. Just guessing, but I’d probably also get regular acupuncture treatments.

All of this is just speculation and based on about five dogs I know and others I’ve observed. And just like we can’t group an entire generation of women neatly into a New York magazine piece, we can’t do the same for dogs. But hey, I see what I see.

And as much as I can’t relate to them, I do understand the allure of being a West Village Girl (or dog). Yeah, I’m a proud 30-something queer women who still happily hangs out at dive-y gay bars with well-drink specials. But there’s still part of me who wonders if it would be easier to conform to the standards of the shiny, trendy girls who hated that I, a less-shiny, nerdy weirdo, was on Homecoming Court.

In reality, I am so very glad to be me, and I don’t want to be them (though the influencer paycheck sounds nice). But there remains a little heteronormative-aspiring kernel, an embarrassing remnant from high school, inside of me that sort of... does? I could sit here and analyze it, or I could smile, content in the knowledge that that’s never going to be who I am, and tell the West Village Girls to say “hi” to their dogs for me.