Dressing Up is Hard To Do

According to the morning news program I watch/listen to while hustling through my morning routine, today is National Dress Up Your Pet Day.  I was sitting on the side of the bed, putting on my socks and shoes when this was announced.  I have to admit I gave a chuckle of laughter as I looked over at my angelpup, poised to jump from the corner of the bed, watching me intently as I tied my last shoe, knowing that as soon as that foot hit the ground it would be time to head outside for our morning walk.

My chuckle of laughter came from the fact that I knew once my foot hit the ground, while he might be ready for his walk, I would be facing our morning battle ... putting on his heavy sweater.

Forget "dressing up" my little pup, when the simple act of putting on a sweater is a matter of seeing whose will is stronger.

It goes like this ...

My foot goes down and Castiel leaps from the bed to the doorway, watching me and dancing in place.

I reach for my glasses on the bedside table, to clean and put on for the day.

Castiel dances in circles between the bed and the doorway, excited yips breaking out, trying to get my attention, tail wagging like a rear-end propeller getting ready for take off.

I stand up and ask if he's ready to go.  (Redundant, I know, but I do it anyway.  Every. Single. Morning.)

He runs to the front door.

I reach for my coat.  It is 20-something degrees outside.  A quick bush inspection outside the door is one thing, a walk down the street is another.  There WILL be a coat on.

Cas sits by the front door, watching me put on my coat.

He knows what come next.

I go to the entry and gather his leash and his heavy sweater from his basket.

He ... BOLTS.

Never the same way.  Sometimes he heads back to the bedroom, sometimes he runs to the living room and jumps on my chair, sometimes he hovers, dancing just out of reach beyond the gate that separates the entry to the living room.

I stand there and tell him to come.  I refuse to chase.  I did in the beginning.  I regret that.  Now he thinks he knows who is in charge.  Yet I hold my ground.  I do not give in.  I tell him to come.

He slinks forward.  No longer dancing.  Head low, tail lower, he comes.

I reach down to put on the dreaded sweater.

He backs away, tilting his head, looking at me with the eyes that seem to beg "No, mom!  Not the sweater".

I tell him if he wants to go outside, to come and get his sweater on.

*** I should interject here that Castiel is little Maltese pup.  While he does hover around 10/11 pounds, which is a bit bigger than what is considered "normal" for the Maltese, he is still small and his hair is thin and fine.  When it is below freezing, as it has been every single one of the last month of mornings, I am one that believes he needs a bit of extra protection, even if he is a dog, if we spend more than a few seconds outside.  Even if he doesn't seem to think so. ***

He slinks forward again and rolls to his back.

I manhandle him into his sweater.  He resists the entire way, limp of body, stiff of legs ... unyielding and unbending ... letting me know the entire time that this is not what he wants.

Then I attach the leash and head to the door and he jumps up, dancing renewed, all is forgiven, ready to bound out the door to see if there is anyone out to play with, any new scent to be found on the ground, any new leaf to be tasted, etc.

As we walked this morning, I watched him with thoughts of the types of pet clothing I had seen in the pictures on the news.  Some were cute, some were funny, some were ... well ... embarrassing for the poor little animal.  I watched as Cas was racing around, to and fro, checking the sights, sniffing the grass and the fence and the light pole and the tree, tail wagging back and forth.  Cheeky little bugger sashaying down the street with his little blue sweater on.

Yeah.

Getting that sweater on for just the time it takes to walk down the street and back was enough "dressing up" for us today.