I slept over at Donald Trump's, and it was the Worst Weekend Ever.

I was dog-sitting for a co-worker, staying at her apartment in Trump Place. It was a big favor to her, and, bless her, she thought that I would enjoy spending some time in her luxe Upper West Side building. But we're different, she and I, and while I knew that going in, I only began to see the extent of it when she and her Louis Vuitton carryon walked out the door.

To begin with, I'm a staunch old-house person and Trump Plaza is about as new-house as it gets. I appreciate why some people, my co-worker among them, crave the new and the clean, won't deal with crumbling window frames and closet doors that don't shut quite right and all the other quirks.

After mere minutes of standing in her Dries Van Noten shoes, however, I began to doubt the wisdom of her choice. First, Riverside Boulevard is a healthy hike from the subway. And it may be neat and clean but, man, it's empty and lonely over there, totally residential, no bodegas or diners or any other kind of commerce within quick walking distance, unless you count a wine store. (I complained to a friend about this. "People who live there get everything delivered," she explained.)

I felt trapped. I hated waiting what seemed like an eternity for the elevator, when I'm used to opening my front door and hitting the pavement. I hated having to say hello and goodbye and nod to a million people when coming or going, a sensation very much like dealing with the families always hanging out on the stoop in front of my old apartment in Brooklyn. Except in this case they all dressed the same.

One girl's doorman and concierge are another girl's wardens.

Indeed, every time I left the apartment to face the bitter cold and wind off the river, or even looked out the window (her 12th-floor view, out the back of the building, is of blocks of concrete apartment buildings), I felt like I had been banished to Siberia.

And then, at about noon on Saturday, it began to snow. And it snowed, and it snowed. And it kept snowing, the biggest storm of the winter, the biggest storm since two winters ago when the whole city shut down and you had to walk down the middle of the street to avoid getting swallowed by a drift.

Does this sound like the plot of a horror movie you know? But instead of Shelley Duvall and a disturbed little boy on a trike, I was stuck with Tallboy — and a dog.

Puccini is his name. He's an Italian Greyhound, a miniature racing dog. He's adorable, but weird. He has zero percent body fat. He doesn't walk, he prances. He's still a puppy, so he's rambunctious, and he looooves people and other dogs and cats and pounces on anything that moves.

Because of the aforementioned low-body-fat issue, Signor P balks at going outside when it's even the slightest bit chilly. Cut to me wrestling him into a fleece snowsuit. (Did she say hind legs first? Or was it the other way around?!)

After about 10 tense minutes of trying not to snap his twig-thin limbs while folding him into the thing, then strapping on the booties, the little Velcro-fastened slippers that protect his wee paws from the ice and the salt, we were all kitted out. Or, rather, he was. I didn't have the energy to put on my own coat.

We went downstairs. I walked him out the special side entrance (owners are not allowed to come and go through the front doors with pets in tow) and he stopped, sniffed the air, took a sharp left turn and trotted right down the sidewalk in front of the building over to the other side door.

Like any good Mediterranean man, Puccini was having none of the snow. This posed less of a problem than you might think. Like you and me and those mythical cats that some people say you can train to use the toilet, Puccini goes to the bathroom in the house.

He is "paper trained." He has a litter box, like a cat's, but lined with something called a "puppy pad," basically a sheet of diaper, changed several times a day.

My friend Mary, who's still mourning the passing of her beloved childhood golden retriever, Sandy ("a real dog"), and adjusting to her parents' newfound infatuation with their new Sheltie, Missy, puts it best: "Since when do you let a dog c#$% in your house?!"

But Signor P is a City Dog, and I was just a guest in his villa, which became even more apparent at bedtime. He sleeps in the bed every night, burrowed deep under the big down comforter. Tallboy, who doesn't care much for Signor P to begin with, had the worst night's sleep of his life, trying to navigate around the pooch. So I did, too.

The next day, we were all sleep-deprived and cranky. Like any good hostage, I tried to tamp down the claustrophobia and keep busy: I plucked my eyebrows — her bathroom mirror has superior light — watched the entire first season of "Arrested Development" on DVD and pirated songs from her CD collection (shhhhh), all the while entertaining my cabin-fever-stricken captor.

After a while, I got smart. When I got sick of playing fetch in the hallway with the squeaky-toy bottle of "Chewnel No. 5," I opened the window and let in the cold air. Puccini made a beeline for the bed and burrowed in. I sighed with relief, and put on a hat and scarf.

And a while after that, I finally got perspective. Stockholm Syndrome had taken full effect. I was flooded with a strange sense of calm. Everything was becoming clear; the power structure felt good, and right, and true.

That night, we all knew our places, and bunked up accordingly. Tallboy and I folded down the living-room couch, and everyone settled in for a long, peaceful winter's nap.

Kelly Bare is a writer and editor in New York. She can be reached at kellybare76@yahoo.com.