Ode to a Winter Coat

Once a Border Collie mistook me for Justin Beiber, pouncing on me like one of his crazed fans and slobbering my face with kisses. Another time a Vizsla wearing mud stockings tried to leap into my lap (never mind that I was standing). And then there was the St. Bernard who hip-checked me into the bushes as he trotted by on a path.
At a dog park, the occasional inopportune canine contact happens, which is why I’ve learned never to wear white . . . or anything fashionable. In fact, I’ve gone to the other extreme, wearing clothes that by all rights should be in a rag bin rather than on my body.
Take my winter coat (to that my husband might say: “yes, please, take it!”). It’s knee-length, down-filled and outfitted with a hood. The perfect coat for cold Minnesota winters and now, considering its wear-and-tear, the perfect coat for the dog park. Sprigs of feathers occasionally poke out from tears in the seam. The back hem is folded-up funny and I can’t figure out how to flatten it. The bottom of the zipper tape has ripped away from its mooring and just because the coat is black doesn’t mean its many stains are invisible, especially the one in the front that looks like dribbled rust.
But it’s so warm, and the pockets have zippers to keep my keys, spare gloves and cell phone safe, and the hood cuts the wind and when the hill’s too icy to traverse on foot, I can sit down and slide, the coat’s slippery outer fabric my serviceable sled.
Wearing it, I am cozy, prepared, and impervious to the messiness of dogs. Not a lot of clothes (think cocktail dresses) can make that claim.