Naturally, I assumed “this” was an exciting new recipe for slow-cooked brisket. Instead, I found myself staring at a photo of a greyhound wearing a Moncler-inspired puffer vest in a shade I can only describe as Aggressive Banana.
Apparently, the 2026 spring collections for “discerning pets” have dropped, and the marketers wanted to tell me about it. According to the gushing prose and bright pictures, the height of truly loving your dog is now measured in monogrammed Neverwoof travel totes and Italian leather booties. There’s even a section on Mini-Me dressing, where the human and the hound wear matching cashmere berets to signify their deep spiritual bond.
I looked at The Boss. He was wearing that North Face jacket that has survived four prime ministers and invited unfortunate comparisons with Dan during COVID.
The irony is not lost on me. According to the fashionistas, I am a deprived soul. I am “fashion-fluid” in the worst possible way. My current ensemble consists of a grass-stained leather collar and whatever mud I managed to scavenge from the river bank this morning. I don't have a Louis Vuitton leash or backpack — I have a tin bowl with dents from when The Boss’s car ran over it.
“I can imagine you in a beret,” he chuckled, pointing at a photo of a miserable-looking poodle.
I yawned at him. An understanding exists between us. He knows that if he ever tried to strap a piece of high-fashion felt to my head, I would stage a sit-in that would make a mule look co-operative. Besides, The Boss is too tight-fisted with anything that doesn’t involve fishing tackle to spend $400 on a doggy raincoat that doesn’t even have a pocket for a tennis ball.
The magazine suggests that these designer trappings are how you show a dog they are “part of the family”. Personally, I think “part of the family” means I get the crusts off the toast and a spot near the gas heater in winter. I don’t need a Versace puffer vest to know I’m loved; I just need someone to acknowledge that the possum in the lemons is a clear and present danger to national security.
Back in my youth, a luxury item was a sturdy piece of knotted rope, bearing the scents and tooth marks of dogs past. It was honest. It was tactile. Furthermore, it didn’t require a “limited edition” certificate.
So, to the pooch in the Adidas jacket: I feel for you, brother. You might be the face of “quiet luxury”, but I’ll bet you aren’t allowed to roll in a dead crow. I’ll stick with my worn collar and my dignity. After all, you can’t put a price on a good, deep-seated itch — and you certainly can’t scratch one properly while wearing a raincoat. Woof!
