The Woof Spa and Resort is located in a part of the West Village that has always filled me with a certain teeth-gritting envy towards my fellow New Yorkers. It’s the playground of those more monied than me, better toned, and able to afford dogs whose racial purity would make any mutt owner blush.

So it was with a fair bit of wary cynicism that I approached a canine beauty salon in that bastion of ostentatiously disposed of income, imagining pouty Pekingese arriving for Farrah Fawcett-style feathering and moody shiatsus being fawned over by over-attendant doggie stylists. Once I set foot inside the reception area, however, and saw the half-dozen frolicking dogs of various sizes, temperaments and ethnicities, my only thought was “awwww!”

It turns out Woof spa is more daycare center than beauty salon and the staff is more concerned with being helpful than hip. Anyone strolling down Hudson Street is sure to notice the daily floor show that occurs in the lobby. When I enter the building, the center of attention is a huge grey Marmaduke Great Dane holding court in the center of the room as a succession of absurdly smaller playmates take turns pouncing on his oversized head, nibbling his floppy ears or taking playful jabs from his enormous paws. The cast of characters includes a pensive white spaniel lying along the windowsill – not partaking in the fun but not disapproving of it either. That would be Charlie, a daycare regular who I’m told always refuses to eat a bite until he gets home.

Others making an appearance that day include a jet-black pug named Daisy Anderson who staff member Maria tells me meaningfully “likes big dogs.” Ms. Anderson lugs her portly frame around the room on spindly legs, doing her best to keep up with the high-paced activities. Once in a while, she pauses from her canine activities to acknowledge the human interloper with a few eager licks and bulgy-eyed stare. There’s also a shy Maltese named Murphy who looks like he’s probably suffered the humiliation of all manner of bonnets, ribbons and bows, but taken it with good humor. Murphy always seems one step behind whatever game is being played, like an uncertain party guest missing the punch line to every joke. After several awkward attempts to join in, he decides to take solace on an empty chair behind the receptionist’s desk, fulfilling some secret white-collar ambition.

Maria tells me that her favorite is a Jack Russell named Radnor, his slightly scruffy exterior belying his gentle demeanor. But the guest who really gets my attention is a wisp of a dog I later find out is a miniature greyhound. Piccolo is running a constant figure-eight circuit around the glass coffee table and black leather couches with an obsessive regularity, pausing only when one of the others steps into his path. Although he’s been bred into some mini-version of himself as a concession to city living, Piccolo seems oblivious to his urban surroundings. He acts as if he’s doing laps on a dirt racetrack somewhere in the countryside, far away from all human and animal distractions. “That dog just runs all day,” says an amazed attendant, shaking her head.

I meet Tom, who’s the manager of Woof spa and he takes me beyond the swinging doors into the back room, where the muffled sound of barking becomes a cacophony. At first, seeing the animals caged in the institutionally antiseptic, neon-lit backroom calls to mind a minimum-security prison. But the alternative – an empty apartment to mope around in while their owners are off earning grooming money is far worse. Despite the cages, the animals still frolic with each other – big dogs on one side, small ones on the other.

Downstairs are the “special” dogs who don’t always play nice with others. Before descending the stairs, however, I have to dodge Cosmo, a hefty bulldog who can’t fully commit to the basement plan so he hedges his bets by hanging out just beyond the door. One of the dogs takes the opportunity to roam free as its cage is opened – Tom is not amused. The transgressor is a medium-sized beagle mix who seems awfully innocent to my untrained eye. “He’s an instigator,” Tom explains to me gravely as he quickly pulls him away from another dog’s hindquarters.

Back upstairs, some new dogs have joined the fray, amping up the circus atmosphere. Each new arrival is converged upon by the curious committee of regulars who inevitably vote them into their club each time without fail. One with a nervous bladder leaves a puddle in a corner of the room, which is quickly mopped up. But the slick floor affects Piccolo’s circuit work, causing him to slide as he rounds the corners, as if he was on a skating rink. After a few embarrassing skids, he adjusts his pace accordingly. New arrival Toola is a flirty Jack Russell who perches herself on the couch closest to the window and poses for my camera like she’s done it before.

Meanwhile, Tom is a whirlwind of activity as he readies the dogs for pick up, greets customers with drop-offs and quietly commands his staff. As I walk over to shake his hand, he saves me from taking home the kind of souvenir that would stick to my shoe and the mop is readied once again. I give the dogs closest at hand a farewell pat and notice that Piccolo has yet to break stride – continuing his laps amid the constantly evolving chaos, running around and around with the same steely-eyed determination – a tiny grey blur in constant motion.