Post 261: Holiday Fashion

Happy Labor Day, folks! After today, everyone except Californians will be wearing black and navy shoes and packing away the white shoes and sandals. Fashion is a tough taskmaster, especially as we head into the Holiday Season. Columbus Day. Lief Erickson Day. Halloween. Veterans Day. Thanksgiving. Black Friday. Faux Fur Friday. Pretend to be a Time Traveler Day. Festivus. Chanukah. Christmas. Boxing Day. New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day.

And you simply cannot wear the same outfit for Lief Erickson to Festivus. It’s just not done.

As new,30 little doggie outfits

33 little outfits for a very spoiled puppy! My daughter buys her a new outfit every time they go out! Unfortunately…she is not allowed to wear them when they get home,because it makes my other two doggies soooo jealous! So all these outfits will fit 5-10 lbs,everything is as brand new.Hopefully you will see something you like.
Feel free to call ###-#####.

Most items 5-7$
Life jacket gone,also heart pj’s
Lots and lots of outfits left.
Would also fit a complacent pussy cat?…or a bunny? 🙂

I hate to be the one to break it to you, Sparky, but your daughter’s dog is ugly. No amount of cute outfits are gonna help. Contributed by the lovely and vivacious NinjaChow who commented, “Dog have fur. They don’t need outfits.” Many thanks, NC!

And thank you to everyone who commented and then WP decided not to display your words. They seem to be showing now. 8)

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2 thoughts on “Post 261: Holiday Fashion

  1. Cunker had never been so humiliated in all his life. Well, except for the last time he’d never been so humiliated in all his life. And, come to think of it, the time before that. And then that other time, too. In point of fact, Cunker had never been so humiliated some thirty-odd dozen times in all his relatively short life. His owner — for Cunker never felt like any level of companion — insisted on dressing him up every time they went for a walk. And not just in a sporty tee and jogging shorts. That would have been acceptable, and would even have made him look sporty in front of the ladies. No, his owner — Bethsalmony, she called herself — insisted he wear the most ridiculous, embarrassing, sickeningly twee outfits she could possibly find. Sometimes it was a bee outfit. Other times, a pink jumper. Once, it was a dress. A dress! He was a boy! Boys most certainly did not wear dresses! But today — today, as if to step up her attempts to kill him with shame to yet another level, it was a bunny.

    A bunny! He ate bunnies! Well, he would if he were big enough and strong enough at any rate, but being a Bichon Frise, Cunker was only marginally bigger than one, and if he had to be completely honest with himself, he was slightly afraid of rabbits. It was the ears. Those big, tall ears. They freaked him out. He couldn’t precisely say why, they just scared him. Also, those huge back feet looked like they could knock him senseless. Rabbits were just bad news. Except now he was one, big floppy damn ears and all. Except he didn’t have those big, powerful back feet that could kick anyone who made fun of him a block down the street. And every time Bethsalmony dressed him in an outfit that achieved new depths of horrifying cute, she made such a squealy noise and mashed his snout into her bosom. “Ooh, aren’t you just the cutest thing!” she shreiked. “Yes you are, you’re the cutest little bunny-puppy in all the world! Yes you are! YES YOU ARE! I just want to eat you up!” And then, as if to demonstrate, she made grunty eating noises while pretending to take a chunk out of his nose. Cunker growled and actually bit her nose the first couple of times she did that, but she put him in a cage every time he did, so he learned to just grit his teeth and put up with it. But oh, how he hated it so.

    “Come on, Cunker!” Bethsalmony called to him after she’d affixed his leash. “Let’s go for a walk!” As she started walking out the door, end of leash in hand, it wasn’t like he had a choice. He tried resisting early on, when she first started dressing him, but she just dragged him out, and if he continued to protest, she’d just carry him out under her arm like a purse. So he went along, yet another day dressed in ridiculous clothing he didn’t need to go for his daily walk where he knew what would happen. He knew, because it always happened. So, down the street they went. He barely paid attention to the scenery or any passers by. He just wanted to disappear into his bunny outfit.

    “Hey, cutie!” It was Drump, the bull terrier from two doors down. “Lookin’ good, sweet thing!” he mocked. To be teased by a bull terrier of all things, a dog with a snout two times larger than it needed to be and eyes so tiny and far apart he thought he must be able to look at two different things at once and see neither of them. Cunker kept his head down and ignored him as best he could. Doing anything at this point would just encourage him.

    “Oh, look, it’s Cunker the wonder bunny!” That was Buk, barking from across the street. He was a daschund, and oddly-proportioned owing to the fact that he was unusually muscled for what was otherwise a quadrupedal sausage. It was the only comment Buk made because he couldn’t stop laughing after that. Cunker wasn’t sure if Buk was laughing because of the outfit, or the commnent he made. Probably a mixture of both, knowing how much Buk thought he was the funniest dog in the world. In his own way, he was, but not for the reasons he wanted. They continued to walk, passing Prissy, a poodle whose fur was trimmed in such a way as to make her look like little more than walking topiary, and who gave him a sympathetic look. Cunker returned the expression; they were in similar situations, but Prissy actually had to wear that fur all the time, which was in some ways worse.

    And then they finally passed Rhomba. She, too, was a Bichon Frise, and he had a serious thing for her. Unfortunately, every time he passed her, he was dressed in yet another ridiculous outfit, and all she did was laugh at him. He wanted to get mad, as he always did whenever he was made fun of, but he couldn’t blame her. Not one bit. One day, Cunker thought to himself. One day, he would be able to go out without some dumbass outfit making him look ever more absurd, and he could go up to Rhomba and they could talk. Just talk, you know? Maybe hit off. Maybe she might even come to like him. Maybe even … well, he didn’t want to think that far ahead and set himself up for a fall.

    At length, Cunker did his business and they returned home. Cunker briefly thought about taking a dump and rolling around in it, but he knew that would be fruitless. She would just punish him with the cage and wash the outfit anyway.

    They returned home and, after some unbearable cooing and cuddling, Bethsalmony removed his outfit and let him be a dog again. Cunker’s relief was palpable, but so was his anger and frustration. He seriously wanted to find out where she kept that outfit — kept all of them — and chew them to shreds. Damn the punishment. Was his dignity not worth it? Did the ends not justify the means? He was a dog, damnit! Not a bunny, not a bee, and he sure as hell wasn’t a girl. His anger was just, and justice must be done. Cunker slunk off to his comfy bed in a corner and plotted. Never again. He would never again wear one of those ridiculous outfits. He was going to make sure of that.

    Night time was a blessed time. All was dark and quiet. He didn’t have to worry about being made fun of by other dogs, and he didn’t have to worry about being dressed up in another costume. Night time belonged to him, ordinarily a time for wandering, polishing off what kibble was left in his bowl, looking for more kibble, wandering about the house, and staring out the window. But this night, he had a mission. Quietly — or as quietly as was possible for a dog whose nails made a soft click on the hardwood floors as he walked — he reconnoitered the area. First, the downstairs hall closet, which he slid open with his nose. Just coats, jackets, shoes, and boots. Next he went upstairs and checked the hall closet up their. Stacks of towels and cloths, for the most part, plus a rumpled bath robe shoved carelessly atop a pile on one of the shelves. Time to check his owner’s room.

    Bethsalmony was sound asleep. He knew this from the raucous snoring emanating from her face, sounding much like one of the tools used by those burly men in bright orange vests who tore up the street from time to time. Still, he had to be particularly quiet here, so close to her. Her snoring might rattle the windows, but she could awaken in an instant if she heard an unfamiliar noise. Her hearing was quite uncanny.

    Ever so slowly, he nudged her sliding closet open with his nose. A large box sat on the floor, opened and packed to the brim with clothes. Costumes for him, those accursed things. Jackpot! And so, one by one, Cunker grabbed one with his teeth, made his way downstairs so as to give him some small amount of privacy and distance, and set about tearing it to shreds. Claws and teeth ripped into the fabric, making satisfying tearing noises. The bunny got its ears bitten off and its poofy tail severed and dumped unceremonously into the downstairs toilet. The bee’s wings were torn off and its plump, stuffed body evisverated of its contents. The dress was mauled within an inch of its life, and then piddled on, just for good measure.

    On his fourth trip to the box, the next costume seemed unusually large and heavy. He didn’t remember ever having worn a costume that was large and heavy, so this must have been one she’d bought and had not yet forced him to wear. Excellent! A pre-emptive strike! He grabbed it with his teeth and, with some difficulty, set about taking it downstairs again. It was tough going — it was long and wide and full of tough padding, and had a full head attached such that it must virtually consume him whole when donned — and then some. This was going to be particularly fun.

    Cunker laid it out on a patch of floor not yet strewn with the viscera of previous kills, and he noticed something. In the pale of the moonlight and the one street light that made its way into the house through the big living room window, this was not a normal costume. Which was to say, it didn’t look cute the way the others did. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t been forced to wear it yet — it just wouldn’t elicit those drum-piercing squeals of delight from his owner. It did, however, look familiar. Very familiar.

    And then it dawned on him. Though his lips couldn’t move like that, Cunker nevertheless began to smile.

    “Cunker!” Bethsalmony called in her sing-songy way from upsdtairs. “Come here, my sweet puppy! Where are you?”
    She was awake. Good. Cunker was in the downstairs bathroom, waiting. The bunny’s puffy tail floated lazily in the toiled bowl.
    “Cunkers!” she called again. “Where is my adorable little puppy-wuppy?”
    Feet on the stairs. She was coming down. Any second now, she would see it.
    “Oh, CUUUUNKers! Come here my– oh. Oh my! On my, no, no, what is this?”
    There it was. The sweet sound of sudden realisation.
    “Oh my god! CUNKERS!”
    All of the sweetness left her voice, replaced with shock and anger.
    “The bunny! Its ears!” she exclaimed, aghast. “And the bee! What did you do to the bee?! Oh, my God, CUNKERS! You get out here right this instant!”
    She was mad. Livid. That was his cue. Cunkers casually sauntered out of the bathroom, down the short hall, padded right into the center of the living room, and sat down amidst the wreckage.
    “Cunk–” That was all Bethsalmony managed to get out before she screamed. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
    Cunkers barked once.
    “What? Who?”
    She was still processing, so Cunkers barked again, just to help the understanding along.
    Bethsalmony stopped and looked closer. “Cunkers? Is … is that you?”
    There it was. Cunkers stood up and growled menacingly. He couldn’t do anything about his voice, which was the only way in which Bethsalmony was able to recognize him.
    “Cunkers! Where did you find that? Stop growling at me right now! What’s gotten into you?”
    In response, Cunkers growled even more menacingly, bearing his bristling new teeth.
    Bethsalmony trod down the remaining stairs and approached him. “Cunkers! You stop that growling this instant and give me that!”
    Cunkers gave her a few growly warning barks.
    Bethsalmony stopped dead in her tracks and her face went ashen, a study in sudden, grave concern. “Okay! Okay! I get it.”
    But she didn’t get it. Not yet. Cunkers picked up the tattered, earless, disembodied head of the bunny costume and showed it to her, still growling.
    “Oh, my.” Bethsalmony quavered, clearly pondering her own mortality, now. “Okay, I get it. You don’t like the costumes.”
    Cunkers stopped growling, snorted briefly, and let the head drop to the floor, but kept the glare fixed on her.
    “All right, Cunkers. I promise, no more costumes. Okay?”
    Cunkers glared at her a few moments more, just to get the point across, then whuffed his assent.
    “Okay. Um … all right. I … I guess that’s settled, then?”
    It was a genuine question. Good. She was looking to him for approval, now, as it should be from now on.
    “Do … do you want … to go for a walk?”
    In answer, Cunkers walked over to the door, then back at her. Bethsalmony walked over slowly and gingerly went for the leash.
    Cunker growled.
    “Okay! Okay, no leash.”
    Cunker whuffed again.
    Without another word, though still with a look of fear in her eyes, Bethsalmony opened the door and the two of them walked out.
    Finally, for once, Cunker could go for a walk and not be teased. At long last, none of the other dogs would laugh at him. They would respect him, now! But best of all, there was Rhomba. Wait until they passed Rhomba. Sweet Rhomba. Surely she could fall for him now, because there was a new Doberman Pincer in town. His name was Cunker, and he wasn’t taking any more crap.

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