Hello, humans. It is I, Takkie the Wrinkled Angel, your favorite five-month-old Shar Pei. You may think that being a puppy is all about zoomies, naps, and chewing things I’m not supposed to. But no. My life is far more complicated.
Why? Because I have a wardrobe. A giant wardrobe.
And I’m not alone in this madness. Oh no. My best buddy Elwood is in this with me. We didn’t choose the fashion life, the fashion life chose us.
It all started when we went on vacation to Austria. Snow everywhere. White, fluffy, magical stuff just waiting to be jumped into! I was ready to dive headfirst, but my human had plans.
“Let’s get you dressed!” she said cheerfully.
Before I could escape, I was stuffed into my full-body winter coverall suit. FULL. BODY. Like a tiny astronaut preparing for a moon landing.
I sighed and turned to Elwood for support. But he wasn’t much help.
Elwood, my dear, goofy best friend, stood beside me looking just as ridiculous. He had a fleece coat that made him look like a grandpa, a hat that flopped over his eyes, and goggles that turned him into some kind of high-fashion spy dog. He looked at me, I looked at him, and we both knew: our dignity was gone.
Still, we ran through the snow, jumping and playing as best we could despite our fashion restrictions. Elwood’s fleece kept slipping down his back. My coverall made me waddle like a potato with legs. It was chaos. Beautiful, ridiculous chaos.
Now that we’re back home, the fashion show hasn’t stopped. I’m stuck wearing skirts and panties (because I’m in heat, apparently, and that means tiny dog underwear now rule my life) because my human says it’s “for my own good.” I don’t know what that means, but it does mean I have to strut around like a doll in a dog-sized tutu.
Elwood, meanwhile, has gotten used to his goggles. He likes them now. He thinks they make him look cool. And honestly? He might be right. Sometimes I catch him staring at himself in a window reflection, adjusting his hat like he’s some kind of dog model.
But let’s be clear: we are not always clothed.
When we’re inside or the weather is good, we are wild, free, and gloriously naked. We roll on the floor, stretch out our wrinkly legs, and bask in the joy of unburdened fur. My human lets us be our natural, beautiful, uncovered selves. No skirts. No goggles. No hats. Just pure, unfiltered dog.
However… there have been incidents.
Like the time Elwood and I attempted a wardrobe escape.
One day, while my human was busy, I decided I had had enough of my little skirt. I waddled up to Elwood, wiggled my butt, and barked in Morse code: Help me, brother.
Elwood immediately understood. He grabbed the edge of my skirt with his teeth and pulled. Unfortunately, skirts are apparently designed to stay on.
He tugged. I spun. He tugged harder. I somersaulted across the floor like a rolled-up burrito.
Determined, Elwood decided to switch tactics. He stood on my skirt, grabbed my panties, and yanked with the force of a dog who believes he is doing something heroic. Instead of freeing me, he ended up catapulting himself backward into the water bowl.
There was splashing. There was slipping. There was a very confused cat watching from a safe distance.
And then, we were caught.
Our human walked in, took one look at the disaster scene, and laughed until she had tears in her eyes. Instead of being mad, she picked up a soggy, embarrassed Elwood, gave him a big hug, and said, “You two are ridiculous. And I love you.”
Now, if you’ll excuse me, Elwood and I are about to go roll in the dirt completely naked before the next fashion crisis begins.
