For all of my life I’ve had to tailor my clothes. Even when I weighed so little in college that I wasn’t eligible to donate blood, I still sported a form assembled from mismatched parts. Never could I buy a suit because I needed different sizes top and bottom. Had to buy pants to fit the hips, then have the waist cinched and the legs raised. Even some bras have had to have the straps shortened.
I once accused our mother Jeanne of making me from a kit. She was not amused. Meanwhile, even my doctor agreed there was no relationship between the upper and lower halves of my body. I’ve always been pea green with envy that Hot Pants’ physique is the ideal representation of female pulchritude. Jeanne used to send her suits, shoes – you name it, it could be dropped into a bag, shipped cross country and arrive a perfect fit.
Well, it turns out that Theo Fannybrice, our Cairn terrier, suffers from the same kind of fit problems that plague me. He’s too husky for a medium, but the large size items hang down. Now, when a male pooch wears low hanging clothes, he ends up peeing all over them. So, I took Theo’s assortment of loose tops to my friendly dry cleaners, where the sweet owner agreed to sew some new seams for a custom canine fit. Unfortunately, all the cutesy sayings are now gibberish. What used to proclaim: “Been there, chewed that!” is now: “Bn te Ched t!” Likewise, “Talk to the Paw” has been reduced to “Ta to t Pw.” Worst of all, “I [heart (a red sequined heart that fell off in the wash)]my Peeps” is the forlorn looking “Pes.”
Well, if you can’t dazzle ’em with your brilliance, baffle ’em with your bullshit.