When Conde Nast readers recently rated Las Vegas hotels, the Venetian came in third overall. The article in which I read this mentions the hotel’s re-creation of the Grand Canal, the gondola rides, the remote-controlled curtains, the 39 restaurants. But I know what Kyndall would mention: the doggy toilet.
It’s discrete, not marked on the property map. It runs behind a fence along the south perimeter. The only indicator for humans that this is, indeed, intended to be a place for canines to, ahem, do their business is a poop-bag dispenser and an injunction to “clean up after your pet.” But dogs instantly understand that this is the TRUE Strip: the mother of all fascinating smells, a veritable Library of Congress of odors, a mega-jackpot of intriguing aromas. It blew Dionne’s mind when I discovered it with her two years ago, and Kyndall is similarly dazzled. I like it because it says to a dog, better than 100,000 rippling neon lights ever could: this is THE PLACE for you to pee and poop!
I appreciate that, but it still grosses me out. Although the area doesn’t strike my nose as being smelly, the artificial grass surface always feels squishy when I walk on it, as if it’s been peed on so much it can never, ever dry out. While most of the owners may follow directions and clean up after their furry friends, some have done so ineptly. I think some of the smears were here two years ago. Remembering this, I made a special point to bring rubber-soled slip-ons that I remove just inside our room when we return from every potty break. I immediately stow them on a high shelf within the room’s closet.
But I’m not complaining. From our current room, Kyndall and I can reach the Doggy Strip in less than 5 minutes, and she hasn’t come close to having any indoor accidents or even making me nervous that she might do so.
The other thing that entrances her about The Venetian is the view from our 31st story window. I haven’t the faintest idea what she finds so fascinating about it.