The Dog Mom Bag
I am handed over the dog mom bag, full of dog weekend sleepover essentials.
The bag itself is a smooth slate—not grey, slate.
"The azure tint is indeed there," the dog mom confirms.
The bag has eight entirely necessary compartments and a stylish, padded strap for the dog mom on the go.
Don't put the dog bag on the floor as the bottom cannot be dirtied.
"Keep it on the counter only," explains the dog mom, blissfully unaware that my counter tops are actually quite gross.
I hoist it up on the counter as instructed. It seems heavy for a two-day retreat.
"She always over-packs" says the dog mom (about the dog).
I open the bag to a dizzying array of "necessities" for the weekend activities.
A shearling coat and matching boots?
"For chilly walks."
A pink drawstring sweatshirt?
An ironic t-shirt reading "Life is Ruff?"
"For comedic relief."
A bowtie and hair barrettes?
"For gender bending."
Mini argyle socks?
"For watching golf."
Equally mini Scandinavian patterned wool socks?
"For optimal hygge."
Little gold sunglasses?
Scented doggie poop bags?
Holistic dog food?
"Made with ingredients you can actually pronounce!"
"Helps with her gingivitis."
A diamond studded leash?
"Cubic zirconia, but who can tell?"
A DVD copy of Cloverfield?
"The dog enjoys found footage style films."
Finally, at the bottom of the dog mom bag is a laminated dog itinerary.
Five pages long.
"Everything you need to know is there."
I scan the annotated document.
Veterinary contact information, sleep schedule, wait—a zodiac sign profile?
"That's important—trust me."
The dog mom says her tearful goodbyes (to the dog) and leaves.
"Do you want to go for a walk?" I ask. The dog perks up.
So, I dress the dog in its shearling coat, argyle socks, and little boots.
The dog stares at me, no longer excited. A sad sheep.
I try adding the sunglasses. The dog slumps.
Total Capricorn, I think.
"Come on, let's go!"
The dog sadly shuffles two steps in the galoshes and stares at the floor.
Her little stinky smile fades.
I remove the sunglasses.
The girdle the dog was already wearing.
I let the dog run around the apartment in her primal, naked state.
Because I am not a dog mom—
I am a dog aunt!