Freud, by Way of Floyd

Floyd, my 15-year-old beagle mix, still loves to go for walks at the park. He can make it a solid two miles at a clip, albeit slowly and with lots of sniffing breaks.

Unfortunately, his leg strength is no longer keeping up with his internal drive. He recently dragged his back paws so much that his toenails got “filed” until they bled. “You either have to get this dog shoes, or he can never go for walks again,” the vet told me. What a brutal, near-end-of-life assessment.

Enter Therapaw, which, as you can seetherapaw, makes canine footwear far more technologically advanced than my own.

I am now the woman who dresses her dog in shoes. It’s an odd dent in the ol’ psyche. I find myself explaining Floyd’s medical condition in excruciating detail to fellow park-goers who say things like, “Look at the cute little booties!” I seem to have a desperate need to distinguish myself from those people who deck out their dogs in pink ruffles and sports bandanas.

Floyd, on the other hand, couldn’t care less. He’s happy as could be. How odd, to learn that my dog may in fact have a better self-image than I do.

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