A few years ago Dorian and I lived in Palm Springs, and we liked to go to a particular coffeehouse downtown.
I remember going there with her one time and ordering an iced mocha, then I grabbed a chair on the outdoor patio to watch people shuffle by while she selected a cozy corner inside to plug in her Macbook and get some work done.
But in spite of so many people parading, I couldn’t help but notice an older lady seated about five feet away from me with her little dog, which was a Maltese or something, and it was all fluffy and white and cute, as those little dogs are, but that’s not why I noticed it.
I noticed it because she had it all dressed up. It wasn’t all foo-foo like, with a sweater and stuff like that which would have just been animal cruelty in that heat, but instead, she had… are you ready for this?
No kidding, sit down…
She had a tiny little saddle on it.
And seated on the tiny little saddle was a tiny little Mexican, wearing a tiny sombrero.
But that wasn’t all… really!
The fluffy white dog was wearing a matching sombrero, and — I’m not kidding here — sunglasses. Yeah. They were strapped around the dog’s head, and the little shit made absolutely no effort to pull off the shades, sombrero, saddle or the tiny Mexican, who I think was made out of a stuffed brown sock with dinky black buttons for eyes and a handlebar mustache that had been applied with black permanent marker.
This was easily the most profoundly racist little puppy I’d ever seen.
I was kind of surprised at the fluffy little dog’s easy-going attitude because I used to have larger, real dogs who didn’t like me putting sunglasses on them so they’d paw them off right away. I can’t imagine what they would have done with a tiny Mexican made out of a sock, but I know the tiny sock-Mexican wouldn’t have cared for it one little bit.
Of course, this whole get-up on the very patient and possibly stoned little Maltese doggie was an absolute hit with anyone who walked by, particularly if they had small children with them or if they’d been drinking, and a handful of people just had to stop and get a picture. I would have gotten a picture to post here but I didn’t have a camera, so you’ll just have to rely on the brilliantly executed word-pictures that I paint with such flourish.
The lady kept telling everyone the dog’s name, which I’ve forgotten, so when there was a break in the humanity parade, I took the opportunity to quench my curiosity and ask her the name of the little Mexican who was riding the dog.
She looked at me like I must be freakin’ CRAZY, because after all…
WHAT KIND OF SANE PERSON WOULD NAME A LITTLE BROWN MEXICAN SOCK PUPPET, HUH?
So she just kind of shrugged and condescendingly answered, “I don’t really know, we haven’t named him.” As she stooped down to adjust the dog’s sombrero I said, “Well how about Dave? That’s my name… we could call it DAVE.”
She didn’t even look up. “Sure, Craig will be fine… whatever you say.”
With the sombrero adjusted, saddle pulled tight and leash all leashed up, she gathered her things along with her precarious puppy and shuffled off to parts unknown without so much as an adios to “Craig, the mumbling maniac with the iced mocha.”
I have to admit though, that she inspired me! But sadly I must report that just like my former dogs, cats don’t care for saddles and sock-puppets being strapped onto their backs either.
Darned good thing the ER is a 24-hour operation.