I spent years trying to make friends as an adult in LA — then the answer barked at me

I have three dogs in my life, and every single one of them is more popular than I am.

One is a French bulldog in a wheelchair. Another is a Rottweiler roughly the size of a small refrigerator who terrifies strangers and covers everyone else with slobbery kisses. The third is an XL bully puppy who is currently being chauffeured around Los Angeles in a velour shoulder bag.

All three have thriving social lives.

Meanwhile, I have to talk myself into leaving the house.

Los Angeles is notoriously difficult when it comes to making friends. People live an hour apart, cancel plans because of traffic, and treat crossing the 405 like an international journey requiring documentation.

Apparently none of these obstacles applies if you’re a dog.

My Frenchie has wheels, which means she attracts attention everywhere she goes. People stop to ask about her, admire her little wheelchair and tell me stories about their own pets.

My Rottweiler is an enormous ding-dong who approaches life with the unwavering confidence of someone who has never experienced a single moment of self-doubt. He’s never once wondered if someone likes him; he’s too busy licking their face.

Then there’s the puppy. 

Recently, I’ve been helping care for an XL bully puppy who has somehow become the most socially successful member of our extended household.

In the span of a few outings, she’s visited a local comic book spot, a pet store and a neighbor’s estate sale.

Yes, an estate sale.

I went to meet a new neighbor. The puppy went to become the most popular person at an estate sale.

Mission accomplished.

Everywhere we take her, people stop. They smile. They ask questions. They want to hold her, photograph her, tell us about their dogs and explain why they desperately need one just like her.

She has no job, no hobbies, no discernible conversational skills and is transported around Los Angeles like a teeny queen.

She’s thriving, and here’s where things get interesting.

The man in my life never imagined he’d become someone who carries small dogs around town in a bag. 

This was not on his bingo card.

Yet here he is, discovering that a grown man gently carrying a puppy (or a Frenchie) is apparently one of the most attractive things a person can do in public.

Women approach him. Men approach him. People who would ordinarily avoid eye contact in a Los Angeles parking lot suddenly want to have entire conversations.

He’s accidentally become the city’s most approachable bachelor, and I don’t have the heart to tell him the puppy is doing all the work.

This is especially fascinating in Los Angeles, where people spend extraordinary amounts of money and energy trying to appear interesting.

We join expensive gyms, buy carefully curated outfits, develop personal brands and spend years perfecting the impression that we’re effortlessly cool.

Meanwhile, a man carrying a bulldog in a tote bag has somehow cracked the code.

Forget the gym selfie.

Apparently, the ultimate green flag is a man who’s more concerned with getting everyone outside for some sunshine than looking cool while doing it.

Of course, Los Angeles has always taken its dogs seriously.

This is a city where pets have groomers, daycare, birthday parties, specialty bakeries, carefully considered diets and occasionally more elaborate wellness routines than their owners.

There are dog-friendly patios, dog parks, and entire social ecosystems built around who walks where and at what time.

I know people who can identify every dog on their block by name but couldn’t identify the owners in a police lineup.

“Oh, that’s Charlie’s dad.”

Charlie, naturally, is a golden retriever with a better skincare routine than I have.

Plus, because this is Los Angeles, even our dogs seem to have lifestyles.

The Venice dog is barefoot-adjacent and probably eats organic.

The Beverly Hills dog has a wardrobe and an attorney.

The Silver Lake dog is a rescue with a complicated backstory and an Instagram account written in the first person.

The Santa Monica dog does Pilates.

I have no evidence for any of this, but I feel strongly that it’s true.

What’s remarkable is how easily these animals move through a city where the rest of us struggle to connect.

Angelenos are experts at avoiding one another. But introduce a dog, and suddenly everybody’s available.

A complete stranger will tell you about their childhood Labrador, their divorce, their dog’s allergies and the emotional significance of a tennis ball.

Five minutes earlier, neither of you would have made eye contact.

Now you’re exchanging veterinarian recommendations.

And the dogs?

They just approach people they like and assume the feeling is mutual.

Maybe Los Angeles isn’t as unfriendly as we think.

Maybe we’re all just waiting for someone to give us permission to say hello.

Preferably someone with four legs, a wagging tail and absolutely no understanding of personal boundaries.

I’ve spent years trying to figure out how adults make friends in this city while my dogs seem to have solved the problem without attending a single networking event.

And the puppy?

She doesn’t even walk into a room.

That baddie has someone carry her.

Mary Kay Holmes is a Los Angeles writer covering culture, modern relationships, and the increasingly absurd business of being a person.

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