Sexy Beast

When I was twelve years old, a very mean boy called me a dog. I was devastated. Like most twelve year old girls, I was overly sensitive about my looks and I didn't take kindly to being called "a dog". He could have just as easily called me "a fox", and my shy preteen self would have been equally offended, but the truth is that if you were to liken me to any animal, a dog really isn't far off. I'm energetic, easily distracted, kind of cute, and...well...hairy. Twenty years later (gulp, that sounds like a long time!), I happily accept, maybe even embrace, the comparison.

A while back I played a little game with my husband called: "If I were a dog, what breed would I be?" His response, "basset hound", sent him straight to the dog house. BASSET HOUND?!! Are you freaking kidding me, those ugly, short and fat, big-eared, long-nosed, stupid, smelly, annoying dogs? I threw a tantrum and tried to throw him out the window. I don't have a problem with being called, "a dog" but, for the love of God, you've got to get the breed right! Incidentally, he would make a very good Rottweiler. Big, strong, smart, pugnacious, and oftentimes misunderstood. See, I AM kinder than he is but I digress.

My dog, Morley, is a Labradoodle. I chose her and we are soul mates. If the Buddhists have it right and reincarnation is possible, I believe I was some kind of lab-poodle mix in my former life and furthermore, if that is the case, I'm convinced that Morley and I are related.

On a good day, my hair falls in curly ringlets, my eyebrows and facial whiskers are groomed, my clothes are comfortable, clean, and try to be form flattering.

But lately those aforementioned "good days" are few and far between. Most days, a frizzy halo hovers over my bedraggled ponytail, my Spiderman tee-shirt is covered in spit-up, my saggy jeans subtly suggest the words "frumpy Mom"; and, unless I'm in the company of somebody that has a completely different lifestyle, I really could care less!

Every so often, however, I worry that I'm becoming a little too complacent with my looks. While I don't aspire to be "Mrs. Robinson", I also don't want my children having to explain (or worse deny!) "Roseanne" for a mother. Okay. Maybe that was a bit harsh - I really don't look like Roseanne...yet. But I fear my habits, if not kept in check, could steer me towards a slippery slope.

This morning I made it my mission to get the overgrown caterpillars above my eyes trimmed. This is a comfortable euphemism for slathered with burning hot glue and yanked out mercilessly by a sadist. "Esthetician" by day - dominatrix by night.

While I was there I decided I'd get my chin whiskers "trimmed" too. I left feeling a little bit less "dog-ish", somewhat sleeker, almost cat-like.... Hmm. Daring to further investigate this "Catwoman" persona, I decided I needed to try on some sexy black boots. You know, the socially accepted Pretty Woman kind of boots (others call them FM boots - that's short for feminine right?)

I don't really have any stylish footwear. Love them though I do, even I have to admit that my trusty New Balance sneaks do not scream "come hither". I don't have a lot of opportunities to sport the sexy look, but it would be nice to have options on those rare occasions that the stars align and that glory of all outings, a date night, falls into our lap.

Standing in front of the mirror sporting Mom jeans and black sexy "come-get-me (cause I can't run very fast in these calf smothering suckers)" boots, I frowned and then giggled to myself. I wasn't Catwoman. I was PUSS N' BOOTS!

I started thinking about Morley.

Morely is a non-shedding dog. Her hair grows in wooley kinks, one could almost say ringlets. In many ways, she resembles a cuddly sheep. When she was a puppy, we tried to get into the habit of brushing her but ultimately Morley's utter hatred for the doggie beauty ritual lead us to abandon the whole brushing regime. We vowed instead to have her shorn twice a year when her matted hair began to break off.

In all her fluff, she is adorable and goofy. She pretends to be tough when her owners are around (read Saturday Odyssey) but underneath all that wafro (white afro), Morley is...well...a sheep, a follower. She's like a prepubescent teen, desperate to fit in but completely clueless when it comes to the world of sexy and cool.

Underneath all that hair, Morley is actually sleek and skinny, almost greyhound-like in her svelte-ness. The day after her grooming, Morley struts her stuff, proudly whipping her knife edged tail, and prances with her long poodle nose pointed slightly more up-in-the-air than usual. In this state, people often stop us and remark what a beautiful, graceful, animal she is and Morley, not dumb in the least, relishes the attention.

But as a wolf can't hide in sheep's clothing, a sheeply Labradoodle can't pretend to be a greyhound for long. Sooner or later, Morley forgets her delicate appearance and unleashes the goof. She bounds up and down like an unbroken horse, soon to be labeled "unbreakable". She chases her ball and, more often than not, misses it and goes skittering off in random circles in every direction but the right one. Then she comes hobbling back, holding out her paws so that I can dislodge the twig stuck in it, eyes expressing a constant state of surprise. I'm reminded for the umpteenth time that she's like a child and I love her unconditionally like one.

The Farmer's Almanac says this winter is going to the coldest one in over 100 years. you know what's sexy in the cold? Fur. We won't be getting Morley trimmed up anytime soon and I won't be sporting the cat look for much longer, my only thigh-highs will be my Sorrel boots, thank you very much. I'm already furrier than the average bear (and some dogs!), and you know what?

I'm bringing sexy back baby.