I walked him in my neighborhood in the morning. I walked him in my mom’s neighborhood in the afternoon. And he sat out with us for the arrival of trick-or-treaters. Nothing. My mother’s political signs got more attention than his costume.
Granted, it was just a $5 shirt. (I don’t believe in decking him out in complicated, constricting garb, strictly for my amusement: see last year’s post.) But, this was really adorable. I can only describe it as a muscle tee.
As I discovered after the holiday, when I posted his picture on Facebook to soothe my wounded feelings, there’s some discrepancy over exactly what he was. One friend assumed he was a pirate. I get that. Skulls and crossbones and all. Another friend thought he was a biker dude, which I find even funnier. Some of the skulls are wearing helmets, so I get that too. I’m not sure about the helmets by themselves. Some invisible ghost Harley reference I don’t get? Whatever he was, he was cute. But, no one aside from me and Mom appreciated it.
The only other person we saw on our morning walk took one disapproving look at Frankie and said, “Oh, Amy” in the same tone one might say, “For shame.” Good thing she never saw 2010’s hot dog costume.
I’ve become a true pet parent and no one but other parents can understand. I recognize how crazy I’ve become about Frankie, and I say this is why I never had human kids. That and the fact that I never married or really wanted them, waited too long, am a little selfish, in a wheelchair, and now almost 43 years old. With real children I’d be unbearably suffocating, overbearing and overprotective. My mom occasionally misses being a grandma, but she’d feel differently as the only babysitter I could trust.
Next year, I plan to take Frankie to school — er, I mean, doggie daycare — where he’ll be fawned over in the manner he deserves. Then he and all his costumed friends will be treated to Halloween pupcakes. Stop rolling your eyes.