Meeting Someone's Dog

Yesterday, I met a coworker’s dog, who was much more disheveled than I had ever imagined. “Ron” is a single man with no children and I had always assumed he would treat his dog like a spoiled kid: well groomed French poofs on the tail, nicely-ironed button-down shirts for every occasion, Sunday trips to the ice-cream parlor wearing miniature Rockport shoes to match his brown walking shoes. Ron would turn his dog into a four-legged mini-him.

Today at lunch, Ron was quite taken with a cross-dressing can collector. The way he looked over her checkered mini-skirt and sideways blond quaff was signal enough for the rest of us to “go get more food.” After we left, their hands met for a moment as he presented her with an empty Fanta can, which (s)he instantly crushed--like his heart--before throwing it into a dirty, plastic bag.

Watching those size-12 heals sashay away, I finally realized why Ron hadn’t dressed up his dog: he was probably afraid of what people would think if they saw him in a sundress and Alfred at his side, wearing a Persian Kitten outfit.