Pomeranian.

If anyone needed proof that people grow to look like their animals, the woman and her pomeranian were almost certainly it.

She wore white shoes, black leggings and a padded out zebra print coat. The dog was similarly piebald. Both woman and pooch had big hair. The dogs' fur looked as if it had just been blow-dried. It floated around it's tiny body in a fuzzy halo of static electricity. Wisps broke free and drifted away on the breeze. The woman's thatch was teased and held in place by at least one large can of Elnett. It had hardened into an unusual style.  Not quite a beehive, not quite helmet. Circa 1960 I would say. Both the woman and the dog wore red bows.

As I walked towards her with Archie, my golden retriever, the woman scooped her dog up into her arms. It was as if she feared that the lolling tongued, floppy eared, marshmallow bouncing along at my side was about to launch an attack.

As I drew level I nodded and offered her "Good morning". Both dog and woman stared at me with their matching, shiny dark eyes. She looked suspicious, the dog looked apologetic.

"I don't want your dog to hurt her." She said pulling the fluff ball closer.

"He won't, but do what you think's best."

"There are a lot of bad dogs out there. People don't think about small dogs when they get a dog like that."

She pointed at Archie. He looked a little confused.

"Well he's fine, really. But you know. Whatever."

"Just keep him away. O.K?"

Archie sniffed and looked up at the puffed up bitch with the bow.

I followed his gaze and it dawned on me. The owner and dog were not the same at all.

The dog was sane.