"Why is that dog pink? I've never seen a pink dog!"
He is pink because he is sunburn.
"Sunburn? Dogs get burned?
Yes, I didn't put the sunscreen on.
"Sunscreen, on a dog?"
Yes, this dog is bald. Naked. Can't you tell. It has no hair. Those spots aren't hair, they're skin.
"Bald? What happened to his hair."
Never had any, never will. It was bred out of him, and all his cousins and brothers and sisters, too. He's some sort of a small terrier, like a Jack Russell, but he's bald. Stark raving naked.
"And, where did you get your pink, bald dog?"
He is not my pink, bald dog. He belongs to my son-in-law, the one that plays the bagpipes, and my daughter, who is allergic to dogs, so they bought a bald dog. Had him imported from Louisiana, in fact. And she's still allergic to him.
"He's so cute. Will he grow. How long have you had him."
He is cute. I think he's full size, about 8 or 10 pounds. He's almost a year old. But, I repeat, he is not my bald, pink dog. He is just visiting. Therefore, I am not responsible for the brown chunks in the living room. Or the office. Or the front hall, either.
"How bout that pile of really weird stuff in the dining room?"
I am not responsible for that either. When he eats the cat's toys, he throws up. When he eats the cat's food, he throws up. When he sees a cat he gets excited, and he throws up. But, if I don't see it, I don't have to clean it up.
"How about your Siamese cats?"
Hey, they're bigger than he is. They're terrorizing him. I feel like I'm sitting in the middle of Whip City Speedway. Except the Speedway's quieter. Maybe slower.
"How come your leg's in a cast?"
I kicked the dog?
"You didn't."
No, I didn't. Would you believe I tripped over the bagpipe?
"You didn't."
Would you believe I was parachuting last weekend? How about, kicking butt in Boston? Line-dancing? Roller blading?
"Seriously, what's wrong?"
Broke the stainless steel screw they put in last December, that's what's wrong.
"I don't believe you."
Then why do you think that is my pink, bald dog?