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"She can't wear that," Phil argues. "They're going to laugh at her."
"Phil." Dan levels a stare at him. "This is 2030. We are raising a strong, independent child who is old enough now to choose her own wardrobe. Just because your mum shamed you for wearing a bonnet doesn't mean we're going to do that to our daughter. Repeat it with me: we break generatonal trauma, we don't pass it done."
"Dan." Phil's voice is flat. "She's a dog."
Dan looks down at the half-grown golden retriever. She whines and tilts her head at him. "Yes, but she picked it."
"She sniffed it."
"Which is picking it. She can't speak. We have to read her nonverbal cues. You'd know that if you read the book."
"Dan," Phil whines. "It was boring. And she's a dog! Loads of people own dogs without reading books."
Dan judges him. It is harsh and immediate.
Phil isn't too bothered. This is an argument they've had plenty of times. "What about the Santa hat? She likes that one, too! Don't you, Muffin?"
"If you keep calling her that, she's going to think it's her name. Which it's not. Isn't that right, RuRu?"
Ru Paw, Queen of Slay and Muffins wags her tail at the attention and the cute voice Dan uses. She is entirely unaware that the processing of naming her nearly caused to be from a broken home. The idea of having to split joint custody is really the only thing that saved the marraige.
That, and the sex is still way too good to walk away from.
Also, they kind of like each other. Maybe. A little.
"The Santa had is so... overdone."
"It's a classic!"
"It's basic. Where did it come from, Poundland?"
"No," Phil says. He refuses to admit that he got it from Harrod's, and it cost more than the shirt and shorts he's wearing combined. "And what's wrong with basic? It's about tradition, Dan. We're taking her to see Father Christmas. Not frilly and... leather."
"Tell her that, not me," Dan says. "She literally went to her clothing basket and picked this one."
Phil waves the Santa had around a little. Ru Paw, Queen of Slay and Muffins yelps and runs at him. She doesn't really need to; he's only a few feet away. She crash lands in his legs, tail going furiously now.
"See?" Phil says. "She likes this one, too."
"I hate you," Dan says. "You're ruining her life. She's going to neet therapy because of you."
"After the therapy she has because of you," Phil argues back. "You keep telling people she's a boy!"
"I do not," Dan says. "I simply don't gender her. And she doesn't care, because dogs are elite creatures with no concept of gender. You think she gives a single, solitary shit about whether or not someone on the street calls her a good boy? No. She exists on a plane of gender-role peace that we can only dream of one day seeing."
"Dan," Phil says. It's not that he disagrees; it's just that he's heard this before. He practically has it memorized by now. Dan has become a philosopher of dog since they adopted her, constantly marveling at the things she doesn't worry about.
Her only source of anxiety comes from those times they stand near the treat jar but aren't actively getting a treat for her. She's a clever girl, and she's learned that if she starts barking her most shrill bark when that happens one of them will give her a treat. Who needs therapy? Not a dog.
"Why don't we compromise," Phil says. "We'll go to Pets at Home and take both of them. Two pictures."
Dan eyes him suspiciously. "Which one does she wear there?"
"Um." Phil thinks. Then his expression brightens. "Her rain jacket! It might drizzle."
"... okay. Fine. You win this one, Lester."
"I'm not winning," Phil says. "We compromised! I compromise this one. And so do you."
"Just get me the rain jacket. Oh, and grab her bag while you're at it." Dan sighs and knees in front of the dog. He adjusts the leather and lace of her bonnet. "You're going to grow up knowing that your parents have an unconditional love for each other, and that healthy and functional relationships really do exist. Do you know how I know that? Because if I loved your dad any less than unconditionally, he'd be dead now."
"Hey!" Phil hands over her raincoat. "That was uncalled for."
"You're uncalled for," Dan sasses back, then gets the raincoat on her. "Now shut up. We're taking our child to meet Santa, and it's going to be a magical fucking moment."
The dog spins in a half circle and tangles herself in her leash, which they both decide to interpret as her agreement. It will be a magical fucking moment, indeed.