We used to live in a great neighborhood for Halloween. A series of winding, wooded streets - comprised of circles and cul-de-sacs, perfectly fit for a "Florida Fall". The neighborhood itself gave a nod to a typical mid-western or mountain-y fall. Even though it may have been 75 degrees. The neighborhood, replete with its trails and cut-throughs, was perfect for golf carts, caravans and make-shift hayrides.
My job was to cook the chili, play the Headless Horseman DVD and man the front door with Joe the Dog. My husband and son and all measure of cousins and neighborhood friends would venture out into the pitch dark night.
I've mentioned before that Joe was incredibly tame and minded really well. Therefore, whenever the doorbell rang - while he would serve as [pseudo] protector at first, once he sniffed out that all was well, he - as well as most folks - were at ease. So, on Halloween, as parents stood a few feet behind their miniature mummies, princesses and Ninjas, they were soon put at ease by the large, gentle, yellow dog that delighted their children.
Joe was a good sport when it came to dressing up. He would tolerate most hats and shirts long enough for a good picture. Ironically, (as I have a blatant and pronounced case of coulrophobia) his clown outfit worked particularly well. It was a festooned collar, little cuffs around his paws and then a hat. Joe was not fond of hats. And the things around the feet confounded him. But the general sentiment got across.
Children used to squeal with delight when the door would open and reveal a costumed, 85-pound, smiling pupper. They would then ask politely if they could pet him and I would assure their parents that he was friendly.
"What's his name?"
"Joe the Dog."
"Joe - that's a funny name for a dog."
"It sure is."
When the kids would leave with their candy and run to their waiting parents, I would often hear them say something like, "There's a big, nice dog at that house - did you see him? He was dressed as a clown...."
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