Years ago he faithfully wore a tiny Star Spangled Banner—an American flag pin—on the lapel of his suit jacket. It gave him a certain caché, marked him as being a member of a particular club of political elites. I didn’t like it, but I didn’t object. It made him feel like he fit in.
When the party fell out of favor, he took off the pin and attached a paperback copy of Strumk and White’s “Elements of Style” onto his jacket. It was, as ever, a slim volume, and yet it looked weighty and awkward, pulling on the fabric of his summer-weight coat. I sympathized of course. All of us writers of a certain age simply adore Strunk and White, but let’s face it, holding such a tight grip on grammar can mark you as an insufferable, intractable, and (God forbid) old fool. I was gentle, and thankfully he relented.
Now he wears a dog on his lapel. It’s a small dog, a Chihuahua/Westie mix, I believe, one of those yappy little creatures that resemble a rodent of some kind from a Doctor Seuss book. The dog has tiny teeth, but almost never bares them. He is in fact a rather docile animal, but still. He displays this pooch like a war medal, proof that he’s made it this far and still has one friend: a dog, a pack animal, one who has chosen him as Alpha.
Photo by Erin Vey on Unsplash
