That I am a singular creature should go without saying at this juncture, canine-loving reader. The Lord God Almighty broke a mold when he created moi. To say the least of the best, I am memorable. From the first sight of my cocked head, with my animated yellow eyes, I make a lasting impression.

In appearance alone, I am cause for pause. You are dealing with one good-looking bitch. My fabulous sable-like coat and graceful poses cause me out in a crowd. Action, too, is on my side in terms of making my presence felt. Be my mood either judgy from a distance or batshit crazy and in your face, this one-and-only type of pooch is unforgettable. Captivating aspects of appearance and behavior are just part of my appeal. I am always sporting some accessory or another.

This lady works them, too. From my signature orange collar to full-blown costume, I own my looks.

As the character Clairee Belcher from Steel Magnolias wisely said, “It is our ability to accessorize that separates us from animals.”

This bitch might act like a wild beast, but I am no mere animal. I like accoutrements. It is a good thing I like to be adorned, for my human thinks it a riot to have me don garments of all sorts. Just so long as the given wardrobe item does not mess with my ears, I am down for the sartorial challenge.

Never have once been fashion roadkill. No fails here.

My go-to is my orange collar. I love it. All ladies have their armor. You know, those signature pieces worn every day and known-for among family and friends. Like a family ring, a special necklace, or a striking cuff, every lady has them.

We are talking about those pieces that are so familiar to loved ones that they go noticed and unnoticed at the same time. For people not familiar with these beloved items, they are among the first things that they notice about you. My signature piece is my orange collar. I have had my orange collar for six-and-a-half years. Lots of dogs have these hunting collars.

This dog does not hunt. I still rock my collar though. I feel naked without it. When human removes my collar, I look up at him and nose my ever-present attribute as if I am not whole without it. Not just anyone can wear orange. This bitch does, and well. The hue complements my luscious chocolate coat very well.

My groomer knows my love of fashion. She always places a jaunty scarf about my neck during my spa days. A dog scarves or simply a piece of fabric, I sashay in my scarfs as if they were Hermès.

Bitch drops it like it is hot in any accessory, especially a scarf. My canine ascots are also a source of entertainment for my human. The fatso appreciates the variety within the presiding and always present reality of me, his mascot. Admiration is one thing. It can lead to bother. When sitting in his lab or minding my own business, the dude often rearranges my scarves. He does it for his own amusement. It is as if he knows that his styling ticks me off.

No sooner than I break free and attempt to reinstate my desired effect does he consciously tamper with my artfulness. I glare at that cretin. The manservant is not Dior. This Chanel requires neither assistance nor puts up with no harassment!

My spare’s best friend knits me scarves and sweaters. I have a wonderful purple-and-white scarf that she made me. Beautifully made and hued, this special piece is used for special occasions. During this past winter, which was a bitch in another meaning of the word, my human was tempted to wear it!

This bitch does not share wardrobe items. For the most part, the locales I call home or frequent are warmer ones. Mobile can be downright tropical. Knitwear is thus seasonal wear. Sometimes, I carry around my knitted scarf for security, attention, and pure admiration on my part alone.

Wardrobe items in singular only go so far. They are only a part of my fashion game. I love a costume. It is like Halloween year-round for this household mascot. I represent. Just so long as the ensemble does not mess with my ears, I am good with most anything. Sometimes my human decides to break this rule.

He should know better. The gift shop associated with the museum where he is a curator is the source of most of these unwanted adornments of the headgear variety. I wear a figurative crown; there is no need for anything else. Still, the human is always putting someone on my head.

He should have known all too well there is a price to pay for messing with me. Revenge is served warm, lukewarm, and cold. Costumes sans parts that engage my ears are welcomed.

One of my favorite costumes was my bat dog costume. It had a cap and vest. I ate the cap. Yep, I shredded that thing to pieces. The vest was great. Not just anyone can pull off a vest. As I am a chesty lass, I can don a vest. My full-figured body build really showed off the bat emblem of the bat dog costume.

Charging down a street, with the human being drug along behind me, or running around a pasture up the country, I was easy to spot in my bat dog costume.

I have a bat costume as well. Of vest-like construction, it has wings. Are you aerodynamic? Sometimes I appear to be. I feel as if I am when I wear my bat costume.

When I work up my pace, I cause the wings to flutter. Walking down the street is my favorite activity in which to wear my bat wigs.

Superheroes and bats are not the only creatures that have wings. You know that a Boykin can have them. What about other creatures? Why, yes, wings are not just for angels, even fallen ones. I once had a flying monkey costume. It was glorious. My human is afraid of monkeys. Watching the original Planet of the Apes as a young child and then visiting a zoo not too long after led to a phobia of monkeys for my human.

The tubby one loves the Wizard of Oz all the same. Margaret Hamilton, the great actress who portrayed the Wicked Witch of the West in the original film version of the book, is hard to beat. The Cowardly Lion is my human’s favorite character. The munchkins are just freaks. I would chase them around and bark at them if they existed and I encountered them in person. I digress though . . . back to flying monkey costume.

It was not a case of love at first sight. As with all wardrobe items, I know that something is going down when my human approaches me with one. The flying monkey ensemble was no exception. I immediately spied the headpiece. The human was given a glare. I even curled my lips in disgust. First, I refused to engage, but I could not help myself. Dogs sniff everything, you know. Taking advantage of this instinct, the human immediately secured the flying monkey fez on my head.

Do I neither look nor walk like an Egyptian? Indian food is great. There, fashion has its place as well. A sari is something I can wear. No to a fez. My human knows the no-headdress-period rule. I still disobeyed it. I had to take matters into my own paws. Dude was pawed in the privates. He dropped to the ground, and I rid myself of the headgear. As he had already saddled me into the monkey vest, I then trotted off with flair while he cried out profanities in pain. The vest with wings was fun.

Still recognizable to a passerby, I used the costume to garner attention. It had the desired result. Attention results in praise and maybe treats. I employed the flying monkey costume with those aims in mind. One day, I doo-ed in my monkey costume. You might recall from previous installments that I enjoy rolling in all types of excrement. My thorough and theatrical engagement with a fresh dropping of some identified pile of sh** made my human gag and toss out my monkey wing vest and wings.

The passion for fashion is universal. I have one beef with it. Why is the art of dress demeaned by the word catwalk?

This bitch takes offense. I can strut better than any feline, and a fair number of women.

What I wear, I own, and not the other way around, you hear. Again, I am unforgettable. My signature orange collar, innumerable scarves, and fun costumes only heighten and vary my badass self!