Grotty clothes I wear to walk the dogs

BY NICK BARNETT

It's pretty chilly today, and small, cold-sensitive Connor has crawled for warmth into a garment I had tossed on a couch. Actually, in our house it's called The Garment. It is a key part of my dog-walking wardrobe.

"Where's The Garment?" I ask my partner when preparing for a walk out in the chill with the dogs. "On the floor," he replies, irritably.

"Do you mind if I wear The Garment?" I ask if we're going out somewhere. "Yes," comes the answer, almost before the question is out.

Every dog owner has a Garment, don't they? A cosy, capacious thing fashioned of polar fleece, often bearing ineradicable stains or irreparable holes. A thing nobody else would wear. A thing with pockets so stretched by overuse that they'll carry two leads, a harness, a bag of treats, a roll of poo bags, as well as the usual wallet, phone and iPod.

Such is my Garment. Once, years ago, its nap was fresh and its fit snug; it was a thing recognisable as a hoodie. Now, after being used as a storage facility for years, it has no particular shape. Some order is imparted by a zip at the front but otherwise it might as well be a blanket. Which it sometimes is.

We bought it at Kathmandu in Wellington. Now Kathmandu is a good company. They make durable clothing with stitching to defy a nuclear blast. But their colours... oy, their colours. My Garment is a shade of greeny blue which simultaneously defames both green and blue. Its lining is lighter and only slightly less slanderous.

It's hideous. Yet it's still there, in the wardrobe. Or on the couch. Wherever it is, at the time.

It doesn't smell, because it gets put in the wash regularly. But it looks as though it smells, if you know what I mean.

When I take the dogs out, it belongs on me. I belong in it. There's a heedless freedom to be savoured in wearing such a dreadful thing: the freedom of having made my peace with one of the truths of dog ownership, namely that it's pointless having anything nice, because it won't last.

When I spot another dog walker in a similarly slobby polar fleece item, I feel a special kinship. Walking your dog is no time for fashion-consciousness or aesthetic nicety; you never know (well, you do know perfectly well) what you could end up with on your clothes. So you keep a special place in your wardrobe, possibly the wardrobe floor, for the clothes suited to doggie activity.

Alongside my Garment is a pair of cargo-style shorts with six pockets, all of which smell permanently if faintly of Schmackos, despite many launderings. These are my Walk Shorts.

In the car, I think, or possibly in the hall cupboard, is my Walking Hat. This is a $7 New World beanie that, worn in any style, makes me look like a git. But it is warm.

Such is my walking outfit. If you see me in it, you might laugh at the 1.8-metre smurf - go ahead, I won't care. Because when I'm wearing it, you can be sure I'm invincibly happy. After all, I'm warm - and I'm out with my dogs.

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