My Secret Shame

I love almost everything about Autumn. The low sun filtered through blazing maples on our street, apple crisp in the oven scenting our home, cool nights replacing the humid nights of summer – all make my heart sing. Unfortunately, the change in temperature also signals a return to my secret shame.

Our black Labrador Rosie died five years ago, and we agreed our next dog would be smaller, but with a similar, easy-going temperament. After a lot of research, I decided on a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. Despite the fact that this new puppy was akin to having a toddler in the house again – a clingy toddler with sharp teeth and no diaper - I loved Buddy, also known as The Love Sponge, and he certainly has lived up to both monikers.

When I chose this breed, I admit I did not take into consideration that Cavaliers do not tolerate the cold very well. The regal name should have been a tip off; even his colouring smacks of gentility. He’s not brown and white, but “Blenheim” after Blenheim Palace in Oxfordshire, seat of the Dukes of Marlborough, and the birthplace of Sir Winston Churchill. However, everything I read said that even though ladies of the court kept warm on long carriage rides by cuddling these little critters, Cavaliers were also hardy hunting dogs who have been bred for centuries to run through the countryside and flush game.

What the experts did not say was that after allowing your Cavie to run and sniff through aforementioned countryside with all of its detritus, people will wonder why you are walking a dirty Swiffer. And if there is any snow on the ground, it will collect on the long chest and leg feathers as though someone wrapped the dog in a length of pom-pom fringe. But most importantly, at the least hint of cold weather, a Cavie will turn into a whiney baby who will persistently and stubbornly claw at your legs, begging to snuggle into your coat. To his tiny dog brain, a down-filled jacket is really no more than a fashionable, portable duvet with buttons, one which was clearly transported on a human’s back just to be available to him. Heck, he sneaks onto beds at home. Why should this be any different?

The only solution was a dog jacket or sweater, and therein lies my shame. The dog could tolerate wearing a jacket, but could I tolerate walking beside him while he wore it in public? It wasn’t as though I was putting bows on him, or rhinestone collars, or little doggie sunglasses and a hat. It was for a very practical reason. Shouldn’t I do everything in my power to make my dog comfortable? I resisted, but after yet one more walk beginning with a bouncing dog and ending with a shivering, wet mess stubbornly refusing at the halfway mark to walk another step, the answer was a qualified yes.

In my quest for a simple, unobtrusive and practical dog ensemble, I was amazed by the vast array of outfits available for the fashion conscious canine - fuzzy pink pajamas with a discreet tail hole, a faux-leather Harley Davidson jacket and cap, a hooded sweatshirt with pockets… Come on. A hood? Biker jacket? Pockets? A dog needs pockets like a fish needs shoes. I couldn’t bring myself to buy any of it. I just wanted something functional and low-key to keep the little critter warm. So I did what any resourceful suburban mom would do when she needs information – I went to the park and asked around.

Sure enough, I spied a feisty Jack Russell in a fetching yet modest little jacket (without pockets or emblems.) Turns out it was made by a local woman working from her home. I took her business card and wondered how I was going to explain to my husband that I was taking Buddy to a canine couturier to be fitted for a couple of custom, made-to-measure, dog coats. I thought I’d hit a new low when she snapped her tape measure shut, tilted her head, and suggested matching boots to protect against road salt. I figured I had to draw the line somewhere and declined.

Now my husband, like our kids, refuses to walk Buddy unless the dog is in his birthday suit. So each Fall, when the air has a bit of a nip, I take a bit of a nip too before heading out with Buddy in his lined, waterproof, tailored, plaid coat. My husband jokes that in his next reincarnation, he wants to come back as my dog, minus the goofy wardrobe. I steel myself for the comments or looks of disdain from the owners of those big rugged, manly dogs. Ah, what do they know? Are their dogs descended from royal laps and hunting parties? Doesn’t my dog have the same rights as….oh, what’s the use. I admit it. I’m ashamed I have a girlie-boy dog in a jacket. Sometimes, life’s a bitch, disguised in togs for dogs.

And in case you don't believe me, just look at the poor bugger: