That dog would be me, Chet Baker.
A dog who is seven has figured out what is OK and what is beyond suffering. And hats, especially hats made for dogs, are beyond suffering. Because hats made for dogs have straps that run under a dog's sensitive ears, and if you are a prickety eared breed like a Boston terrier, hats squash down two of your finest assets. You cannot hear well with a hat on, and a dog who cannot hear well is an unhappy dog indeed.
I am not a hairy baby. I am a man-dog who is almost eight.
So I ruin this picture on purpose. I hold my legs out straight and roll my eyes up in my head. People who do not know me might think my pose is cute.
I am trying to look like a zombie, or a corpse. A dog zombie.
Eventually she puts me down. I wipe at the hat with my paws, but the straps and elastic hold it on.
But Mether and Phoebe like it. So I will not ruin it.
In fact I have not seen her jump at all, except over the occasional creek. And then she has to wind up for a long time, and she often says a bad word when she lands.
I suppose it is just my fate to get dressed up in costumes every now and then. It is part of my life. I do whatever I can to make the pictures all come out very badly.