Last week we went to a Fourth of July parade in the neighboring town of Creswell. As we slow-roasted on the hot sidewalk waiting for things to get started, a lady with a poodle walked by. She had somehow dyed the dog’s curly fur to resemble a flag: it had blue hindquarters, a red torso and head, and its natural white coloring was left haphazardly throughout. On the scale of extreme tackiness that poor dog was off the charts — like something you’d buy in the discount bins at Walmart. God, who DOES that, I thought to myself with an internal eye roll. The two of them bustled by, the woman lugging a cooler and the dog’s nails scritch-scritch-scritching on the pavement, then I felt a small hand on my leg.
“American dog,” Dylan breathed. His face was a wide-open flower of pure wonder.