I am in the hotel elevator with a guy and his dog. The dog is wearing pajamas. They are white pajamas with polka dots.
“Say hello to Kevin,” says the man with the dog.
Kevin wags his tail, looking at me. Waiting for my salutation.
I press the button for the lobby. “Hello, Kevin,” I say.
Kevin is an American Hairless Terrier. The tiny pair of pajamas he is wearing are actually long underwear. Kevin is all business. He is staring alertly at the doors, as though he is our platoon commander.
“Kevin is always wearing some sort of clothing,” the man explains. “He gets cold since he’s hairless. He prefers pajamas at night because they’re much easier to sleep in.”
I completely understand. If you’re a dog, the last thing you want is to wear your day-to-day clothes to bed.
“We tried a nightgown,” says the man. “But that didn’t work.”
“Is that right?”
“We have silk pajamas for him, too.”
I smile.
“There’s a hole in the butt,” the man adds.
I jingle change in my pockets.
I look at Kevin, who is staring at the elevator doors with laser-beam focus. He’s no longer wagging his tail, which is poking out from his aforementioned opening. Kevin is just standing vigilantly, staring at the doors, every muscle in his body tense, poised, and ready for combat.
“I’m taking him to Florida tomorrow,” says the man. “It’s a vacation just for him and me.”
“Florida sounds fun,” I say.
“Yeah, Florida is Kevin’s favorite place in the world. Because it’s warm. He likes warm places.”
I ask what sorts of things Kevin likes to do in Florida.
“Oh, lots of stuff. He likes walks on the beach. He loves chasing the seagulls. He likes to go out to eat. He’s a big fan of shrimp.”
Join the club, Kevin.
“Last year I had to put him on a diet when he got back home from Florida. Kevin had love handles.”
Kevin looks back at us as if he knows we’re talking about him. Then he glares at the doors again.
“Sometimes I take him swimming,” the man says. “He used to get nervous in the ocean, but then I got him a little life vest. Now he’s good. We hang out in the water, floating around, watching the seagulls fly. Sometimes we stay out there for a long time, just Kevin and me, talking.”
The doors open. Kevin barks. It’s the universal bark of excitement. He’s turning circles. It’s Walk Time.
“My wife got Kevin just before she got cancer. I’ve never been a dog guy, but when she was in treatment she couldn’t take care of him.
“So I had to take over being Dog Dad. My wife had to write out feeding schedules and Kevin’s daily routine. She made me promise to take really good care of him. Made me swear to her.”
I ask where his wife is now.
He offers a small smile. “We’re going to scatter her in Florida.”