Sometimes there are reasons to love L.A., and sometimes s**t’s just weird.

Case in point: shaky Chihuahuas with nervous conditions as accessories.

It used to be – as far as I am able to discern from my middle-class perch – a Beverly Hills thing. Women, who clearly had attachment issues, would shove their grossly over-bred, rat-sized dogs into specially designed handbags that cost more than my rent and take them to lunch or the spa or a meeting of the alien abduction survivor support group. And these animals were so terrified they’d start to vibrate harder than the San Andreas fault. Mommy’s little pooky-wookie needs a sedi-wedi-tive.

Dogs are supposed to be smart. Why they never learned to open the Valium that was most certainly rolling around somewhere in that handbag is beyond me.

And if this freakish doggy co-dependence had stayed in Beverly Hills, I could’ve lived with it. But it’s spreading like the runs on a third-rate cruise ship. And it’s not just Chihuahuas anymore. There was a – oh hell, I don’t know what it was. It looked like a dry-clean-only Doberman that had been machine washed in hot water and put through the dryer a few times. Barbie’s little Doberman Pincher. And it was in the housewares section of Bed, Bath & Beyond apparently choosing a new cake pan. (Doggy biscuits are SO last year.)

But that’s not the worst of it. The dogs are growing. I watched a young man in Santa Monica (who looked like he’d know first hand the check-in procedure at San Quentin) wait in line at a movie theater with something that might have been a pit bull. Personal protection? Abandonment issues? Or maybe the dog just set off his basketball jersey nicely.

Who knows? But I’m reaching the end of my rope. This has gotten out of hand, and those of us left with some measure of sanity have to speak up. You want an accessory? Buy a pearl necklace. It won’t crap in your handbag.