A man in a shiny leather jacket gripped the leash with his fingerless gloves and flashed a toothy grin as he began walking down the runway. You might expect a scantily clad woman to be lolling on the floor, or a gimp on all fours, bobbing his head to the Big Sean that thundered out of Westway's speakers. Shove your way past the cooing crowds snapping Instagram photos and you'd see it was a tiny, shivering dog, its tail completely horizontal under its stomach and a BDSM mask zipped tightly around its head.

To be sure, we saw plenty of pups who took the lit cigarettes and crushing masses of people in stride. Much like the dogs Vice used for a spread in their annual fashion issue, these animals seemed fine acting bored and looking like people. If there is something acutely absent from the world we live in, it's hipster dogs.

It killed us to walk away from a Maltese (we're not experts) named Molly, who spent the better part of 10 minutes licking our face; it was the most love we'd feel all night, and solidified our belief that cats are soulless, conniving beasts and dogs are a beacons of unshakable devotion. Greet you with kisses and a wagging tail when you come home from work? Sure. Wear this BDSM gear and trot around a nightclub? You got it.

Outside, the massive line to get in never diminished: a hallmark of every Vice party is the manic urgency with which people MUST GET IN. Irritated women holding their IDs aloft while their men wear pained expressions, slowly pressing against the overcoat in front of them. Is this Ellis Island or a faux-strip joint selling $6 beers?

An older gentleman exchanged words with the bouncers after he was denied entry: "I'm an old G, man! These people are kids, man!" A bouncer then asked the man to identify himself. "I'm a fucking G, man! Def Jam tells you who I am!" A massive, impeccably dressed bouncer approached the spurned man and gave him a warning. "Listen, I'm gonna tell you right now, it's not even worth it."