“You call that modern formalwear, Alfie? Get in your bed! GET!”
GateHouse — The dog we had when I was growing up was an adorable, slobbery wet mop named Cutty, a wonderful companion known mostly for her thick black fur, dragon breath and abysmal bladder control. (Seriously, best dog ever, but if you’d brought one of those hotel room black lights to our downstairs carpet, you would have seen nothing but a minefield of long-dried puddles. If I’d had girls over, it would have been a problem. It was not usually a problem.)
There was a lot to like about Cutty: She could smile on command, which might have actually been angry teeth-baring but whatever it was adorable, she could catch mice (which came in handy when you live in a 400-year-old house in rural Indiana) and she could consume an entire box of 12 chocolate Santas in one sitting, which, incidentally, is not something you want to have happen in a house with light carpeting, if you catch my gloppy drift.
But Cutty, being a dog, did not live a fancy lifestyle. She had one possession in the world, one, not counting the throw pillow in the living room she would occasionally make love to. (I know what you’re thinking, and yes, the guests were regularly notified, and we had Lysol or whatever.) And that possession was a red rubbery ball that she got seriously growly about if you tried to touch it. OH wait, she also had a red and white dogsweater my Mom made her wear at Christmastime, and every time you put it on her she would give you this look like, “Oh I see that you are trying to get me to run away from home?” So, OK, three possessions. But never, at any point in her 16 years, did she own a $6,000 custom wedding dress.