This originally appeared on xojane.com

I am extremely starstruck by my dogs, but I feel weird asking for autographs, mostly because they can’t hold a pen in their paw. Every once in awhile, they will pose for pictures, and if I am very quick about it, then they may allow for an easily put on accessory or even a full costume, but that is usually only after a long walk or late in the dog evening, about 7pm, as they start to get sleepy eyes around 6:45.

Generally, I prefer to photograph them au naturel, maybe with their paws on each other, like that Janet Jackson album cover from the “Hot hands as clothes” 90s.

I don’t live in a very hot climate, and dog clothing will be tolerated by my little rescue Chihuahua-Pomeranian mix Gudrun, for a brief period, just to maximize the Mommy interest in her, but my older, slow-to-change-and-progress, Australian Cattle Dog mix Bronwyn will never take to a simple dog sweater, even if it is hand-knitted in a chunky, marbled, high-end vegetable dyed yarn by her aunt.

So Bronwyn gets excused for not wanting to participate in photo shoots. I don’t make her wear clothes. She’s a big dog, and big dogs suffer indignities worse than small ones. Their elegant long dog bodies and paws are perfect for stylish, classic dog outfits, but they can’t be persuaded to don them.

She might find the humor in those dog costumes that look like the costumed character standing up, the images that are thrown up and disseminated as memes and group emails with the subject header “Halloween for dogs” during October, but she’d rather not put it on.

Bronwyn had a hard life, abandoned downtown and lost and homeless for no one is really sure how long, before she came to me, starved and scarred, limping up my front steps directly into my heart. She doesn’t have to wear anything to impress me.

Bronwyn survived, and thrives, now possibly more than 13 years old, but I’ll never know for sure, because I don’t care, I just love her, so just color me impressed, always.

Gudrun however, is the belle of the ball. I am very careful to dress her in things that are specifically made for dogs, like this spectacular handmade kimono that was designed for her just after the release of the film, “Memoirs of a Geisha.” It’s all Velcro, and it stays on only as long as the photo takes to be shot.

There are a bunch of moving parts that can get caught on things, and even though I am home all the time, there’s no way my eyes can be on everything, and I don’t want my dogs to be hurt by anything, least of all, fashion.

If you don’t have the will or means to make a dog kimono, serious work for people with much more skill at the sewing machine than I, then you can improvise a high fashion look like the one Beyonce did for “Crazy in Love.” Gudrun pays homage to Beyonce here, in a fairly inexpensive necklace that I never wear, but momentarily transforms this household Chihuahua into a powerful pop diva.

Like the kimono, the necklace is only worn for a moment, just for the photo, so it will last me for all time. I know it’s adorable, but you don’t want your pet eating anything like this, because you could be picking the components out of their poo for weeks, or even worse, down in the middle of the night at the vet emergency room, a place no one ever wants to go.

Have we discussed the dog petting position I like to call “The Court Reporter”? It’s a very good thing that I do almost every morning I am lucky enough to wake up at home. My big dog, Bronwyn, who is my older, loving Australian Cattle Dog mix, will follow me out of the warm bed into the bathroom and while I am seated on the toilet, where she and I both know I will take considerable time, and stand, pointing her tail at me.

She stands expectantly, just within the reach of my arms, and I pet the two inches above her tail, on the lower part of her spine, and from where I am sitting, and how I am delicately ruffling her fur with my fingers, it looks like I am a court reporter. We sit for several minutes like this, like we are Exhibit A – The Court Reporter.

Bronnie sometimes acts like she doesn’t want to get petted. She sits by herself in a pretty satin pillow outside, blonde fur glinting red and gold in the sun, a warm smell of corn chips around her, as dog paws are fritos-like when heat is applied to them. She’s standoffish, a little bit cold, a little bit old, incapable of becoming the puppy battering ram of need that the Chihuahua is when being deprived of slavish attention.

If you want to pet bronnie, you have to seek her out. She doesn’t beg for it with a whine or with her eyes. She stays in her corner, but inside, I know, she waits.

Because as soon as you pet her, she practically falls apart. Her eyes roll back in deep gratitude, and she takes in a huge breath like she’s breathing you in, and you feel the two cool jets of air coming out of her snout, little streaming thank yous. Her dog heart is beating fast and wanting the moment to never end, and she will gently hold your hands in between her strong front legs, with worn and dusty paws. She will lean on you will all her body weight and crush her soft head into yours and show you how happy she is and glad she is and it is the best of her and she wants you to never forget.

There’s percolating sounds that a good dog makes when she is happy and healthy and sitting next to her mom and/or dad. It’s like these little wet noises of pleasure, that coincide with brief petting, getting those doggie endorphins going, hands between long limbs and touching the warmth within, like you are stoking a dog fire.

I often can’t believe the simple yet overwhelming joy I get from holding/ witnessing/caring for my animals. Life is too much at times, and people don’t give you the quiet assurance you need. If you put your hand unexpectedly in between someone’s arm and body, it’s likely you will get a punch.

A dog, a nice one that is – will give you a look of gratitude, close her eyes in reverie, breathe long and hard and deep to show you she is taking all that good feeling inside, storing it up for later, dog dreams still yet to be dreamt, magnificent fields full of balls and you and her alone but for the squirrels in the trees.

Is there anything more exciting than new life. Dove is new as the morning dew and she’s not my dog, but a very welcome recurring guest star dog.

She’s got that soft puppy fur that lays flat against her pink chicken-like body and needle sharp teeth she will sink right into the fleshy part of your palm. When puppies bite it never really hurts but it’s not a good practice for them to get into.

She rolls over and over and over and over and it never gets old because to her its never happened before. She’s never happened before and she’s loving it.

Dove’s ears are shell pink inside and they flop all over as she bounces up onto the couch.

Sometimes she will work herself up into such a frenzy that she will just collapse midplay. She turns off like her battery pack has been removed or her plug has just come out of the wall.

She falls asleep on her back like a human child, lying like a toy soldier on her mother’s lap. Her limbs are completely straight, chest up, dog legs at her sides and below, seemingly at attention but actually loudly snoring.

There’s lots of adoptable dogs at the Los Angeles animal shelters right now, especially small ones, little Chihuahuas, deerheads and appleheads, kept many to a cage, as they seem to enjoy being together and are usually not kept in solitary, like the magnificent St Bernard or the majestic Pitbull.

They run all over themselves, little legs holding tiny bodies aloft, sometimes barking but more often not, jumping up on the metal bars to get a closer look at you.

I can’t get one today, I leave town tomorrow, and I can’t handle another pet right now, but oh, if I could, I would take them all.

I have a serious hoarding streak, somewhat abated by the flurry of reality shows on the subject, and the fear and shame of being one of those people, discovered in their modest homes with hundreds of animals, unable to cope with the truth of it, keeps me from acting on my impulses.

I want to be covered in dog hair, in muzzles and nuzzles. I love dogs, and there can never be too many, but that is the danger in my thinking.

But if I could, I would, and I would start with the Chihuahuas of Los Angeles. There’s one right now I saw two times in my subsequent visits to the pound. She’s a teensy little shaky redhead chi mix, and she’s wearing a tshirt that is too big for her scrawny frame, and the neckline of it has stretched enough for her little dog shoulder to peek through, so the effect is that she has got on a very chic off the shoulder garment. Her elegant bones can be seen underneath her soft red fur, and her tear stained eyes appear huge on her birdlike chi face. I want to scoop her up and wrap her shaky body around my neck, and we would just be like that, forever and ever.

Adopting shelter dogs is a wonderful thing to do, but know your limits, I guess, is what I am trying to say.