“Is he part Shar-Pei?” she asks. She hands my latte out the drive-through window. “All those wrinkles!”
Bella glares from the passenger seat, indignant at being mistaken for a male, let alone a Shar-Pei. Look at the pink collar, for Chrissake!
“No, she’s just a worrier, so her forehead wrinkles. Part boxer, part lab.” Part opportunist, waiting for me to set my drink in the cup holder between us.
A pink collar doesn’t necessarily indicate gender, I tell Bella as we drive away.
I know of a male dog named Pink. He’s black. He wears a pink collar. His owner, holding onto Pink’s pink leash, spoke of a prior pet dying of cancer. This is his tribute to the deceased pet. Pink doesn’t seem to care what color his collar and leash are. He’s comfortable in his masculinity. And he’s not a worrier like Bella.
I’m not going to worry either, I decide. I don’t want to get worry wrinkles on my forehead, lest someone mistakes me for a Shar-Pei and tries to collar me.
Bella is skeptical that that would ever happen. Her wrinkles unfold a bit as she stretches to lick the foam off the lid to my latte. You should worry, though, she tells me. After all, you think you’re conversing with a dog.
And next time? Ask for non-fat. My collar is getting a bit tight and I need to watch my figure.