Dogs who need Woolite

Feb. 27, 2003

Dear Patty,

These are the proverbial three-dog nights in Southeast Missouri: frosty, still and long. Hank, Lucy and Alvie are appreciated as much for their body heat as for their companionship. But last night they awoke us twice howling.

We think coyotes are living behind our house in a wooded area known as Happy Hollow. We often hear animals yipping in the night. They could be dogs, but they sound wild. Hank and Lucy howl at them, Alvie the little beagle bays.

We don't walk the dogs through Happy Hollow anymore. Alvie probably would be humiliated if we did.

We have committed the ultimate dog owner's sin -- at least it is a sin to people who love cats more. Alvie has become a sweater dog.

Dressing up dogs in cute outfits has never appealed to me either, but in this case practicality outweighed my shudder. The reason is that Alvie always seems to be cold. Wherever a beam of light falls on the floor is where he lies down. That's if he isn't snuggled up to the radiator in the kitchen.

My theory is that the excess water caused by his heart congestion cools his body too much. Whatever the reason, winter in Southeast Missouri has been hard and frigid, and Alvie loves to take walks with the other dogs, so he's wearing a new sweater.

It's red and blue and only covers the top half of his body, and only the top of his front legs. His first sweater was too small. We'd underestimated the size of his swollen chest. I pulled and tugged, but he was like a sausage too big for its skin.

Alvie's new sweater fits just right. He looks preppy. He looks silly, too, but comfortable.

Dogs aren't the only comfort seekers. Our central-air lives condition us to a perpetual 70 degrees. If we work indoors, the only time we are confronted by the "real" temperature is on our walks to and from the car. People who have garages bother with variations in temperature even less.

Maybe the yen for complete protection from the weather stems from our mothers always warning us that no matter what we were doing we were going to catch cold. But you wonder what the effect of living such insulated lives has on us. If we no longer feel the extremes of hot and cold, do we also begin not to feel other things?

We insulate ourselves from feeling pain and sadness at the expense of feeling ecstasy and joy.

We can find ourselves living room-temperature lives.

Feeling is the unfolding of the unexpected. The more our lives are perma-sealed and irradiated and shielded from the blasts and caresses of experience, the less unfolding occurs.

Towels need folding. Lives need to unfold.

We have grown too accustomed to mild winters in Southeast Missouri. Bring it on, Old Man Winter.

Poor Alvie. This is not the first time we have humiliated him. Two Christmases ago DC put tiny antlers on him and placed him in a basket in hopes of increasing donations while her father played in the Salvation Army band at the mall.

But Alvie did not struggle when I put the sweater on him. He would have when he first arrived at our door just over a year ago. He was unused to any attention, used to going his own way. Now he solicits affection. He has concluded, perhaps, that we mean him well. I have to remind myself that we mean him well because my dog wears a sweater.

Love, Sam

Sam Blackwell is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian