Of Felines and Canines and Cowl-necks

This afternoon my son asked, "Can we PLEASE get an orange kitten?"

"Sure," I replied. "Some day."

We've done this dance before. I love the openness of "some day": he is appeased, our current two housecats can rest easy knowing they won't be sharing litterboxes (or their people) with an uber-cute interloper, and I'm off the hook. Usually.

"Great. And can we dress it up like Puss in Boots, with a hat and boots and a sword?"

I respect his imagination. And the pervasive influence of all animated movies. But even though I can technically fulfill this request (thanks, Meredith), I won't.

I've long suspected animal fashion is a kind of torture--not quite circle-of-hell torture but certainly shame-inducing and possibly pain-inflicting--both for the person responsible for it and the animal forced to endure...and maybe for any witnesses. (I’m waging no PETA-style campaign here, just offering experienced opinion.)

I will confess to once—once—dressing our greyhound in an off-white, chunky, cable knit, cowl-neck canine sweater (not sure if the more pressing question here is WHY on Earth would I do that or WHERE on Earth did I find it) that…gasp, sigh…matched my own, human version. 

Which I was wearing at the time.

It was not even Halloween. 

The whole affair lasted twenty minutes: nine minutes to get the damn thing on her, 30 seconds of her giving me the Are You Fucking Kidding Me This is So Depressing For Both of Us face, and 10:30 minutes of me trying to get it off of her. In any case, it was the early 2000s and I didn’t know any better.

Sorry, Nora.



Also for the pearl necklace I made you wear on Audrey Hepburn movie night.

I am ashamed.