GQ Doggie

Chad, the fit and burly owner of my gym has not stopped ribbing me about Willie’s size — a running joke that I have sacrificed or somehow compromised my masculinity by choosing a small dog.   And since it’s actually Chad’s job to challenge me, it seems natural that our conversations during my training sessions sometimes take on an adversarial – if playful – edge.  It’s a funny dynamic; though I’m a paying client, Chad dictates how much weight and how many reps while I sweat and struggle, under his gaze, toward muscle failure.

At my last training session I was lying on my back doing bench presses with a heavier weight than I was accustomed to.  Chad made a pencil entry on his clipboard, then looked up.

“So,” he said, “how’s Willie?  Have you gotten him one of those nice little leather Louis Vuitton travel bags yet?”

“No;” I say with a grunt, “he travels in a beige plastic crate.”

“Really?  Well, have you at least gotten him a little raincoat yet?  Maybe some little booties to keep his feet dry?”

“Not yet; if it’s raining, I towel him off when we come back from our walks.  He’s so small I could dry him with a dishtowel.  You know, Chad,” I say, pushing the heavy bar away from my chest, “it’s interesting to me how some men think of their pets as extensions of themselves.  You know — men who overcompensate for their perceived – um — shortcomings by choosing some big, slobbering, butch dog.  Or by, say, driving a big pickup truck like yours.”

“Yeah, right,” Chad says with a chuckle, utterly secure in his dogless, pickup-driving manhood.  “Let’s go — five more.”

As I struggled with the weight, muscles burning, I thought about — but didn’t mention — the email message I received that morning from our friend Emma in New York City – herself the owner of a small dog, a lovely little Cavalier King Charles Spaniel named Christy.  “I can’t wait to meet your pup,” Emma wrote, “and you know these little dogs really do need coats, especially when they are so young.  I thought people just dressed small dogs for fun, but they actually need the coats so they don’t freeze to death.  Plus it is suddenly so cold now — and he’s from the south!”

Christy’s wardrobe includes garments made of fleece, cotton, wool, and down – as well as a raincoat and a few other things.  Richard and I never considered that we’d have a dog that needed apparel, but Emma is right.  And while Willie won’t need the kind of wardrobe Christy has – she’s a city dog, after all, and a girl – twice this week Willie trembled when we stepped outside into the frigid morning.  He stopped trembling – as I did – once we got moving, but this little, ten-pound Louisiana rescue mutt is experiencing his first-ever winter, and he needs another layer.

Because Willie looks like a miniature border collie from the British Isles, I see him in a simple cable knit sweater or some kind of tartan.  On our first trip together to PetSmart, a saleslady makes recommendations as Richard and I help Willie in and out of a few things.  I’ll never tell Chad how sharp Willie looked in the navy argyle we bought on impulse (“Wow,” I’d said to Richard, “he could wear this at Christmas.”), and I’d rather Chad didn’t see Willie in his pale blue fleece with the fake pockets and zippers.  But the $20 black cable knit sweater we slipped over his head virtually disappeared over Willie’s mostly black coat, offering a layer of warmth without calling attention to itself — a tasteful and practical choice for everyday that will keep Willie’s – and my – masculinity intact.

Willie wore that sweater on our first walk with my friend Susan and her big Labrador Retriever, Rosie.  Ten minutes up the trail, Susan said, “Why not let him off leash?  He’ll be fine with Rosie and you’ve got to try it sometime.”

Willie and Rosie snuffled through the dry leaves together; they ran ahead then doubled back and returned; they sipped water from the stream and chased a squirrel.  The dogs had a grand time, their tongues lolling and tails wagging as we approached the road and our parked cars an hour later.  I moved to reattach Willie’s leash.  “The sweater!” I said.  “It’s gone!”  I turned to look back over the last hundred yards of trail, seeing nothing but tawny leaves and patches of snow in the dappled light.  “It must have gotten snagged on something,” I said, “and he just kept running right out of it.”

Or maybe Willie thinks sweaters are for sissy dogs.