Last night, we tried to take Gatsby for a walk after work, as is our daily ritual.
The temperature had dipped below 40 degrees, and Gatsby hadn’t been in weather that cold since last winter. So naturally, as good pet-owners, we
forced him into put him in his sweater.
Gatsby hates his sweater. With the burning passion of a thousand suns. No, a million suns.
Getting the thing on him in the first place is no easy task. It requires catching him (usually by gently pulling him out from under a table by one or two legs, whatever is within reach), shoving (again, gently) his head through the hole and then somehow wrangling his paws (which at this point are writing in protest) through the “sleeves.”
Then he completely freezes up (see the first photo).
Yesterday, we succeeded in unfreezing him and actually got him out the door, which was an accomplishment in and of itself. But then after he did his business and walked approximately half a block, he was done. He sat his little butt on the cold concrete sidewalk (really, Gatsby? That was better than walking?) and refused to move.
He is a handsome little devil though, isn’t he?