Aunt Dollie warrants remembrance and attention, which was what she got when she lived. I knew her as my Dad’s aunt during the 1960s and thought her exotic and stylish, as far as aunts go. Her haircolor was eggwhite, and I never saw it any way but bunned, sleek and severe. Her skirts were mammoth, though she was not, and she sewed pockets into them to hold her chihuahua Chico, like a hankie.

She gave off the air of party and had a really good walk, swishy. She looked like a woman who had opinions. She looked like a woman who liked looking like a woman who had opinions.

She and her husband Harold didn’t have children, which may account for her elegant clothing allowance. It may account for the affection she gave Chico.

This I could not share. Chico could never have been a pup, or else the cute-gene skipped his generation. His was the bark of a beast clamped in a bear trap. His was the mien of a blender spun on high speed.

I wonder why he was such a nasty dog. Perhaps living life as an accessory just rubbed him the wrong way.