My fashion-challenged mom shops with me at Peridot. My job is to tug my leash when we go past the store, so she’ll go in and look around. She’s getting inspired by all the new fashions.
Cathy is very proud of her parka, which she claims is at least 15 years old. She refuses to buy another winter coat.
Fortunately, she is looking into buying some new blue jeans, because she wants to show off her new body. If you’ve been following this blog, you know she went on a special diet and has been exercising 3 or 4 times a week at the gym. And we walk…and we walk. We’re both in great shape.
“Yes, maybe I could get more clothes,” she tells me. “But I have no place to wear them. I work at home and my only social events are held at the dog park. So I spend my clothing budget on you, your dog walker, your treats, and …oh yes, your vet bills when you eat junk.”
Time to change the subject. And now you see why I’m going naked. If Mom isn’t buying herself a new winter coat, you can bet I won’t get one either.
My mom Cathy was reading the Wall Street Journal last weekend, when she came across an article: Is Obama too Fit to be President.
Then Betsy Talbot’s Success Blog posted a review of a new book, The Chic Entrepreneur. Subtitle: Put your business in higher heels. Higher heels? Stilettos? No way.
And Penelope Trunk (author of The Brazen Careerist) laid down the law in her blog post: When it comes to offices, appearances matter.
Cathy was using some words that an innocent dog like me should never hear. I won’t tell you what she’s wearing as she types away at her copywriting business. And we can’t talk about her decorating skills, either. Some people are nesters. Let’s just say Cathy isn’t.
“Who cares about what people look like?” she said, tossing the paper across the room (not in my direction, thank goodness). “We all need to work at home, where no one can see us. Anyway, what would have happened to us if people judged politicians by looks back in World War II? Roosevelt in a wheel chair. Churchill about 100 pounds overweight. And somehow we won a war.
“And why are we still looking up (literally and metaphorically) to women in stilettos? When women can wear comfy shoes,” she concluded, “we’ll have real power. Let’s liberate our feet.”
Well, mom, let’s take my liberated paws and go for a nice walk. I don’t care what I look like, although every day someone gives me a compliment. “Cute dog.” “Beautiful fur.” “Sweet face.”
But I have to be fair. Cathy doesn’t choose housemates based on looks. I looked pretty awful in my Petfinder.com mug shot. And we just adopted a cat that looks like a basketball with fur.
Sometimes dog owners think too much. It’s my job to keep our eye on the prize: dog parks, treats and chew toys. What else matters?
OK, I don’t stop with food. Cathy got some flats to wear when she absolutely, positively can’t wear sneakers. We can’t call them “dress shoes” because Cathy doesn’t do dress-up.
She hates to buy shoes because none of them fit. She’s right. Her feet are shaped more like shoe boxes than shoes.
So she buys whatever she can, spending as little as possible. She spends more on concert tickets, books and (thankfully) dog walking. She just begrudges paying for anything that causes pain and pinches her toes.
This last pair were pretty ugly. She was desperate and they fit, more or less. But she knew: they really should go.
I saw what was needed. On her own, she would never replace them. It was my duty to chew them up. Now she’s forced to buy new ones.
So…why did she yell, “Oh no, Gracie!” and shove me into my crate? When do I get a nice thank you biscuit?
When hell freezes over…or Cathy voluntarily dresses up when she doesn’t have to. Not tomorrow, for sure.