By Peter Carlson
Washington Post Staff Writer
Tuesday, February 15, 2005; Page C01

At first, I figured New York Dog was an over-the-top parody of dog magazines, perhaps published by the folks who put out the Onion.

Then I decided that New York Dog must be some kind of communist propaganda, designed to get the toiling masses enraged that the rich treat their dogs better than their employees.

But now, after a systematic study of all three issues, I've concluded that New York Dog is exactly what it appears to be: a magazine about just how crazy you can get about dogs if you happen to have way too much money.

Apparently, I'm not the only guy confused about New York Dog. After the first issue debuted last fall, a French reporter -- ever on the lookout for new examples of American idiocy -- e-mailed the editors to ask: "Who are your readers, and do they take the articles seriously?"

Editor Leslie Padget quoted that question in her column but did not reveal how she answered it. She could have replied that the mag appeals to the kind of dog fanciers who flock to the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show -- which concludes tonight in New York -- as well as to connoisseurs of the absurd. Both groups will love it.

After all, you've got to love a mag that publishes stories titled "Dogs on Atkins!" and "You've got pee-mail!" and "Are mutts the new black?"

New York Dog is a courageous dog mag that dares to take on the toughest canine issues. An article titled "Insure or not so sure?" weighs the pros and cons of purchasing health insurance for your pooch. A piece called "I can't go on . . ." tackles the tragedy of doggie depression. It asks: "Does your dog need Prozac?" And answers: Yes, if it's recovering from the "death of a beloved caretaker or a best doggy pal."

In "Ruff Justice," the magazine consults celebrity divorce lawyer Raoul Felder on how to keep your dog in a custody battle: "Start a diary showing that you are the primary caretaker. Note how many times you walk the dog."

And in "Zen and the Art of Canine Maintenance," the mag covers holistic medical treatments for dogs -- aromatherapy, color therapy, ozone therapy and "Dr. Bach's Rescue remedy," a fluid placed on the paws to calm nervous or shy dogs. That article is illustrated with eye-catching photos of Jeff Levy, a veterinary acupuncturist, jabbing needles into a couple of cute pooches.

America is awash in dog magazines -- Dog News, Dog World, Dog Fancy, Dogs USA, Dogs Today, Modern Dog, and Bark, which bills itself as a literary mag about dogs. Some are more serious than others, but nearly all are prone to weird excesses: Who can forget the Dog Fancy article on how to do a palm reading of your dog's paw? But none can match the sheer jaw-dropping goofiness of New York Dog, and few would even think of running a piece like "Not in front of the dog, dear!," which raises this provocative question:

"Can making love in front of your dog disturb it so much that the resulting trauma might be long lasting, or even permanent?"

The answer is: Yes, it can. Your dog could get the wrong message and decide to join in the fun. Or it might mistake your moans of love for cries of pain and attack your partner.

But, of course, New York Dog isn't just a serious magazine about the myriad problems of dog ownership. It's also a frivolous mag about all the stuff you can buy for your dog if you happen to be both rich and nutty. This stuff is displayed in glorious fashion spreads worthy of Vogue. Maybe they should have named the mag "Dogue."

The current issue has two classic fashion spreads. "Doggy Bedlam" is eight pages of photos of cute dogs and lovely female humans, each modeling the latest in high-fashion pajamas. And "Bow Vows" is nine pages of photos of a dog wedding in New Orleans -- including a delightful shot of the groom, Pilot, decked out in top hat and tuxedo, standing atop a big white wedding cake next to his lovely bride, Cookie, who looks absolutely radiant in her frilly white gown, pearl necklace and white corsage.

These lovely and tasteful wedding pictures raise an important political question: Will our president's support of a constitutional amendment defining marriage as a union of one man and one woman have the horrific unintended consequence of preventing the wedding of two consenting heterosexual hounds? Better write your congressional representatives today to demand protection for canine matrimony!

After only three issues, New York Dog has already established a pack of regular features that fans can't wait to see.

There's "Doggyscope," a dog horoscope column: "Libra dogs are influenced by the planet Venus, the Goddess of Love and Beauty. You are romantically compatible with those born under the signs of Aries, Leo and Virgo and you are constantly falling in and out of love! BUT PLEASE TRY TO BE MORE DISCRETE!"

There's an obituary column where dog lovers can commemorate their departed pets: "Fido Graham, 1992-2004 . . . Fido, pronounced 'Feedo' by his owners, in recognition of a French father and his taste for the finer things in life, 'loved vittles from Gourmet Garage and a drop or two of wine on festive occasions,' according to his family."

Best of all is "Queer eye for the scruffy dog," in which Howie Binder and Larry Roth, proprietors of a New York pet salon called "Doggie Do and Pussycats, Too," provide "extreme canine makeovers" for grungy dogs, complete with before and after pictures.

Alas, the latest issue reveals that all is not well at Doggie Do. Howie and Larry have had a nasty falling out, and the mag reports that Larry has been accused of attacking Howie "with a pair of grooming scissors."

That explains why Howie did the latest makeover without Larry. It also proves that New York Dog is not an Onion parody or a piece of commie propaganda: No satirist or propagandist could possibly make that up.

Whew! For a while there, it seemed like the trend toward celebrities starting magazines named after themselves had petered out, but now we're in luck:

Sylvester Stallone, star of the Rocky and Rambo movies, has published the premiere issue of Sly, and it's just as wonderfully awful as you'd expect.

Whenever these mags appear, the Magazine Reader staff snaps into action and counts the photos of the eponymous celebrity in the premiere issue so we can rate it on our patented EgoMania Index. Sly has 34 pix of Stallone, which means he comes out in the middle of the index, ahead of Rosie (5) and Oprah (15) and Gene Simmons (27) but far behind Ivana (58) and Mary-Kate and Ashley, who hold the all-time record with 63.

The premise of Sly is that Stallone, the mag's 58-year-old "editorial director," will teach men how to "stay in the game past 40." To that end, it includes generic advice on diet, clothing, travel, cigars, wine, beer, HDTVs and, of course, sex.

There's also a piece on anger management that reveals the kind of guys Sly expects to reach. A quiz designed to determine just how angry you are asks this question: "Are people so used to you being angry all the time they assume you are even when you're just constipated?"

Stallone's contributions to the first issue are, um, modest. Under the title "Women We Love," he wrote a tiny, poetic essay on Kim Basinger: "She lets you into her life a molecule at a time." He recorded a brief conversation with James Caan in which Caan tries to lure him into appearing on a TV show. There's also an excerpt from "Sly Moves," Stallone's forthcoming fitness book. And a story about "The Contender," the NBC boxing-related reality show that Stallone co-hosts, which debuts at 9:30 p.m. Monday.

Plus, an excerpt of the script of the forthcoming "Rocky VI," which just might be almost as much of a cinematic masterpiece as "Rocky V."

There are also a bunch of full-page ads for "Stallone Instone," Stallone's line of nutritional supplements -- including one ad for a testosterone-boosting potion that identifies Stallone as a "Renaissance Man and Physique Icon."

For the intellectuals in the audience, Stallone has composed a couple of pages of neo-Nietzschean philosophizing: "Be the guy who tells the joke, not the recipient of the punch line. Be the predator, not the food source."

Stallone didn't just write those words, he lives those words. In the case of Sly, he is the predator and the suckers who shell out $3.99 are the food source.