Chet Baker: The Captain and Schlemiel

 I will tell you something about a dog who is seven. A dog that old has figured out how to pose for a picture so he looks good. And he has also figured out how to ruin a photograph. Especially a dog who has been photographed many thousands of times in every possible setting and situation. A dog like that knows his way around a camera.

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.

 

Phoebe gets away with a lot with me. More every day. She does many things that make me look and feel stupid, but she laughs so prettily and smells so good and kisses me so sweetly that I let her go ahead and do what she will. She seems to think I am a hairy baby, something to dress up and smile at.

  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.

 

So I walk a little ways with my back hunched and then stop and stand still with the hat falling over one eye. I am not going to do anything to make them laugh any more. I am trying to look as miserable as I can. I stand this way for a long time, waiting.

They keep laughing!

But it works! Mether is still laughing when she takes the hated cap off my head and holds it in front of me. I grab it and I am off!

 

A changed dog! The Bacon is Back!

Nobody is going to get this hat away from me. Because then they might put it back on my head. I growl menacingly.

 First I wet it down.

This gold braid needs to come off.

 

And so do these straps.

Before I can do any damage  Phoebe takes it away from me. Even though I would not have ruined it. Because I am not actually chewing it.  I am doing what they call Fake Chewing. I do the same thing with clean underwear and socks that I steal from people who are trying to put them on. I am more just mouthing it.

I fake chew things just to get people excited. If I wanted to I could rip this hat to smithereens in three seconds!

But Mether and Phoebe like it. So I will not ruin it.

 

When she steals the hat I have to jump for it!

Phoebe tells me I am not jumping as high as I used to because I am chubbeh. Well, she should try jumping high when she is 48. You get a little less springy. Mether knows that. She does not do very much jumping any more.

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.

Very badly.

 Ahoy! from Cap'n Chet Baker. The things they do to me...