Wait! Stop! It's me! (A Phoebe story)

Spouse often uses me for sales pitch practice. It's not my favorite activity, but I get what enjoyment I can out of it by being "the customer from hell." It involves putting on my customer hat, however. So, this morning, he started on a pitch (while I was sitting here at the computer typing an e-mail), so I stalled him while I found my customer hat. It's an old beat-up straw gardening hat with a bent brim. Ugly as sin, but perfectly serviceable. I donned it and played my part, then went into the living room.

Phoebe, from her customary perch on the window sill behind the sofa, started barking her head off as soon as she saw me. "Oh, look!" I said to spouse. "She doesn't recognize me with the hat on!" I went to her, intending to pick her up and let her sniff me. She backed away, barking and growling and snapping, and promptly piddled all over the window sill and back of the sofa. Spouse snatched her up and cuddled her, I snatched the hat off and extended my hand, which she barked at, growled at, then sniffed and licked. I took her from spouse and held her while I put the hat back on and off and on. Then I put her in her pen and disappeared into the other room for several minutes. I came back with the hat. I left. I came back without the hat. I left. I came back with the hat.

Poor dim little walnut-brain finally got it. The traumatized poochie is now sitting in my lap. I'm wearing the hat.

(Spouse cleaned up the mess she made.)