This is Treasure, everybody. Treasure's day yesterday probably began as most days do: Lots of eating, sleeping, and pooping—a comfortable, happy monotony occasionally interrupted by scratching, walking, and a few barks out the window at that kid who has the nerve to keep riding up and down the block on his bicycle. Maybe Treasure chased a tennis ball or two. Maybe he got to spend some time in the park. Maybe he got to sniff that one bitch's butt.
Treasure probably noticed his owner was getting out her Reds jacket. Treasure probably got excited. When she does that, it usually means she'll be gone for a while, which, in turn, means Treasure gets the run of the place. When he's alone, Treasure can take that fifth nap without a television blaring in some other room. He can sniff around the baseboards of the kitchen with impunity. He can lie on the carpet wherever he damn well pleases. At some point, the sun will go down. He can take that sixth nap. This was gonna be good. Treasure was gonna get Treasure time, and Treasure likes Treasure time.
But wait. What's this? Oh, no. Treasure's owner also got out that little red jersey, and those little pin-striped white pants. Woof. Treasure knew what this meant; Treasure had to wear that shit. Treasure had to go to that big place where there would be lots of tall people and those irritating concrete floors with no trees. He probably had to do this last year, too, or whenever the Reds last did that Bark in the Park promotion aimed at dog owners. Woof. Treasure probably did his best to stall. He probably didn't come over right away. He probably didn't cooperate initially when his owner tried to hold him with one hand while somehow sliding those baseball pants on his tiny legs with the other. But she offered him a treat, and then another, and there was nothing Treasure could do about it. Have you had one of those treats? They're addictive; Treasure doesn't understand why, but he can't help but drool at the thought of tasting even one of them. Nothing else matters when even the idea of one of those tasty morsels is presented to him. Before he knew it, those annoying little red socks were on Treasure's feet. Huh. How did that happen? Damn. It was too late. Woof.
What lay ahead were several hours of aimlessly wandering around the concourse of Great American Ball Park. There would be other dogs, and some of them wouldn't be wearing any sort of ridiculous getup like Treasure's. Treasure probably envied those dogs. But other dogs would be wearing clothes, too. Whenever they could, Treasure and the dressed-up dogs probably exchanged knowing glances of solidarity. They all knew the drill. It would be an evening of being gawked at, of hearing the incessant oohs and ahhs of strangers, of having to sit still for just one more photograph. Treasure's owner was especially thrilled on this night. She kept saying something about him winning some sort of best-dressed contest; she repeated it over and over, cooing it loudly into Treasure's face. Treasure responded by sniffing his owner's shirt. He did his best to feign enthusiasm; he played along. He tried—really, really tried. But all he wanted to do was get back home, take off those stupid clothes, and take another nap.
Reds Photo Galleries April 24: Bark in the Park [Cincinnati Reds]