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All dressed up …
By Peter McKay
Creators Syndicate
Somehow over the past few years, our smelly, grumpy old West Highland Terrier of a dog has found himself a pied-a-terre. (That’s French for “second home.” I looked it up on the Internet.) Harry still sleeps here at night, but every morning, somewhere around 9:30, my mother-in-law stops by, dangles a leash and takes him down to her house for the day. When she brings him back, right before dinner, he seems annoyed that he has to come home.
Harry suffers from a variety of ailments, one of them being a skin allergy and a recurring fungus infection that makes our house smell like spoiled cold cuts. I no longer notice it, but a kid selling popcorn for a fundraiser last week winced when I asked him to step inside while I got my wallet. Harry’s allergies have made his hair fall out and his skin turn black in spots.
He’s old — we’re not sure how old, as we picked him up from a shelter years ago when he was already over the canine hill. The only time he gets up anymore is to rub his rear end on the carpet. I’d stop him, but it’s the only pleasure he has left in life.
For the longest time, Grandma was just coming by to take Harry for a walk around the neighborhood. She’d stop by every morning and jingle the leash. Harry, who hates exercise, would shrink in his doggie bed, trying to look invisible. Grandma, who likes exercise and doesn’t take no for an answer, would march over, hook him up and drag him out the door. Literally. Some mornings, Harry would just roll on his side and refuse to cooperate, and Grandma had to pull so hard I thought his little head would pop off and roll across the carpet.
But then Grandma decided to forgo the walks and start keeping him for the entire day while my wife and I were at work. Suddenly, Harry was at the door every morning, anxiously waiting for her arrival and whining when she was late. It didn’t take long to figure out that Harry was getting all kinds of treats at Grandma’s house. He got oatmeal in the morning, Jell-O at lunchtime and Ritz crackers between meals. Those foods are all off-limits at our house, where he’s on a strict specialty diet of lamb-and-rice kibbles to keep his creeping, smelly fungus in check.
A part of me resented the fact that Harry seemed to like spending time at Grandma’s house more than he did at ours. He spent all day eating stuff he shouldn’t, and then came home to stink up my house. But another part of me realized that he was down there rubbing his butt on Grandma’s carpets instead of ours. I had lost my dog, but at least I breathed easier.
One night this week, I came home from work to find our 15-year-old son on the couch, a weird look on his face. At first I didn’t say anything, as 15-year-olds usually have weird looks on their faces — they’re always just finished doing something they shouldn’t or planning a future transgression. I tried to ignore him, but finally turned to him and frowned, asking him what he was hiding. He pulled back a pillow.
There was Harry slouched on the couch, wearing a green turtle-necked doggie sweater. On the back of the sweater was a big orange patch, a silhouette of a Westie. He looked like a small, bedraggled hairy cheerleader. I’m not sure if a dog has ever committed suicide, but my dog looked like he wanted to at that moment. It was embarrassing, depressing and gratifying all at the same time. My son smiled the way people smile when they think something’s hilarious but don’t want to say so.
“Grandma bought it for him,” my son said, stating the obvious. “She thought it would cover up the bald patches.”
“How will he go to the bathroom?” I asked.
My son held him up on his hind legs. His cute little outfit conveniently left spots open.
“They accounted for that!” he said.
I stared at Harry and shook my head. He’d signed on for oatmeal and Ritz crackers, and ended up wearing an outfit that made him look like a furry nerd.
“Looking good, Harry!” I said.
Part of me felt sorry for him, but another part can’t wait till Christmas. He’ll look so cute in a little Santa hat and coat.
To find out more about Peter McKay, please visit www.creators.com.
Harry suffers from a variety of ailments, one of them being a skin allergy and a recurring fungus infection that makes our house smell like spoiled cold cuts. I no longer notice it, but a kid selling popcorn for a fundraiser last week winced when I asked him to step inside while I got my wallet. Harry’s allergies have made his hair fall out and his skin turn black in spots.
He’s old — we’re not sure how old, as we picked him up from a shelter years ago when he was already over the canine hill. The only time he gets up anymore is to rub his rear end on the carpet. I’d stop him, but it’s the only pleasure he has left in life.
For the longest time, Grandma was just coming by to take Harry for a walk around the neighborhood. She’d stop by every morning and jingle the leash. Harry, who hates exercise, would shrink in his doggie bed, trying to look invisible. Grandma, who likes exercise and doesn’t take no for an answer, would march over, hook him up and drag him out the door. Literally. Some mornings, Harry would just roll on his side and refuse to cooperate, and Grandma had to pull so hard I thought his little head would pop off and roll across the carpet.
But then Grandma decided to forgo the walks and start keeping him for the entire day while my wife and I were at work. Suddenly, Harry was at the door every morning, anxiously waiting for her arrival and whining when she was late. It didn’t take long to figure out that Harry was getting all kinds of treats at Grandma’s house. He got oatmeal in the morning, Jell-O at lunchtime and Ritz crackers between meals. Those foods are all off-limits at our house, where he’s on a strict specialty diet of lamb-and-rice kibbles to keep his creeping, smelly fungus in check.
A part of me resented the fact that Harry seemed to like spending time at Grandma’s house more than he did at ours. He spent all day eating stuff he shouldn’t, and then came home to stink up my house. But another part of me realized that he was down there rubbing his butt on Grandma’s carpets instead of ours. I had lost my dog, but at least I breathed easier.
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There was Harry slouched on the couch, wearing a green turtle-necked doggie sweater. On the back of the sweater was a big orange patch, a silhouette of a Westie. He looked like a small, bedraggled hairy cheerleader. I’m not sure if a dog has ever committed suicide, but my dog looked like he wanted to at that moment. It was embarrassing, depressing and gratifying all at the same time. My son smiled the way people smile when they think something’s hilarious but don’t want to say so.
“Grandma bought it for him,” my son said, stating the obvious. “She thought it would cover up the bald patches.”
“How will he go to the bathroom?” I asked.
My son held him up on his hind legs. His cute little outfit conveniently left spots open.
“They accounted for that!” he said.
I stared at Harry and shook my head. He’d signed on for oatmeal and Ritz crackers, and ended up wearing an outfit that made him look like a furry nerd.
“Looking good, Harry!” I said.
Part of me felt sorry for him, but another part can’t wait till Christmas. He’ll look so cute in a little Santa hat and coat.
To find out more about Peter McKay, please visit www.creators.com.
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