It’s hard for a dog to feel burly when dressed like a clown

My new dog is a wimp. There, I said it. I might as well; I’m sure other folks around town are saying it, too, after what happened last weekend.

As usual, I blame The Lovely Mrs. Taylor. It was, after all, her idea to dress our hound up like a clown with gender identity issues and force him to prance around in a “Halloween for Pets” competition.

Now, those of you who read this column regularly (both of you) already know Prince is a big dog, or a small horse; the jury’s still out on that one. He’s a beautiful, noble greyhound, recently “rescued” from the track where he used to chase mechanical bunnies while race fans lost money betting on him. (He’s fast, but not by greyhound standards.)

Despite his losing nature at the track, he is a magnificent example of the breed. I always feel cooler when he’s walking beside me, even though I am not such a hot example of my breed (middle-aged, Caucasian human).

So I was vexed when Mrs. Taylor told me of her plans to drape the poor animal in a frilly clown suit and force him to wear it in public. But once an idea enters her mind, even a bad one, it’s there to stay. I learned long ago it’s easier just to step aside and let things run their course.

Still, I felt pity for the hapless beast as Mrs. T slipped the ruffled, multi-hued anklets over his immense paws. Prince stood stoically as she stretched the collar—also ruffled and gayer than a San Francisco Mayday parade—around his thickly-muscled neck. He balked at wearing the goofy, pointed hat; I give him credit for that.

By the time Mrs. Taylor was finished, Prince could easily have landed a job dancing with The Village People, right between the Indian and the construction worker.

I made one last, desperate plea to Mrs. T to let the poor dog keep his dignity, but my entreaties fell on deaf ears.

“Oh, he looks soooo cute!” Mrs. Taylor enthused.

Prince, meanwhile, huddled behind the big recliner in the corner, trying to hide his shame.

The walk down the street to the old library, where the contest was being held, was an uncomfortable one. Cars slowed, faces gawped through tinted windows. Prince struggled to keep his head up, but was making a poor show of it.

About 50 dogs gathered in front of the library, all looking about as miserable as Prince. My stepson James was there; his girlfriend had dressed their Pit Bull mix as an angel and was introducing her around to the other dogs. James looked every bit as embarrassed as I felt.

Halloween parties for dogs are, not to put to fine a point on it, a chick thing.

The worst part was, despite being by far the largest pooch in attendance, Prince was scared to death of all the other dogs. At one point, a brown ball of fur small enough to fit into my shirt pocket backed Prince into the library doorway where he stood shivering like a naked, wet Eskimo.

Former racing greyhounds can be, well, weird when it comes to socializing with other dogs and Prince, it seems, is no exception. Or maybe it was that idiotic clown suit that sapped his self-confidence.

Whatever the case, The Lovely Mrs. Taylor had to practically drag him past the judges’ table.

Prince won an honorable mention. That’s too bad, because it encouraged Mrs. T, who’s already talking about his chances in next year’s competition.

Poor, poor dog.



More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.