Ladies, and gentleman, please give a warm welcome to Olive, the Illusionist. That’s right, my dog is an accomplished Illusionist. She can make herself look larger or smaller, grey or brown, even change the color of her eyes and disappear.

The other morning as Olive was parading around the yard, nose to the ground, enjoying the cornucopia of fragrant stinks emanating from the lawn, I looked at her and thought, “She’s so dainty and fawn-like; maybe she’ll be small.” She doesn’t look as husky as most Weimaraners. She looks like a star Quarterback, not a middle linebacker.

Later that same day, while Olive is out looking to plant some more lawn cigars, I look at her and can’t quite believe my eyes. I feel like I must have stumbled into “Olive in Wonderland.” It’s as though she’s grown 2 sizes bigger since early morning. “My God, she looks giant today; maybe she’s going to be an Amazon and it will be like walking a cheetah in a few months,” I think to myself.  How is this possible?

When it’s very bright and sunny outside, Olive wears her grey fur. When she’s inside or it’s not sunny, she wears her brown fur. I surmise that the grey fur is what she wears when she’s showing off. The brown coat she saves for more informal occasions. And sometimes, I think I can actually detect her Clark Kent/Superman-like transition, when her fur actually shimmers with a grey and brown glitter-like quality. She clearly makes the most of her limited wardrobe.

She also uses her eyes to great affect as well. People alternately refer to Olive’s orbs as either “spooky” or “beautiful.” They have the quality of striking marbles that look different depending on what angle you look at them. Sometimes Olive’s eyes look mostly yellow, other times they look grey-blue and sometimes they look yellow-blue. And in photographs, they even exhibit a purple-like aura. They look their funniest when she starts falling asleep while she’s sitting up. She looks like a quiet drunk as she starts to teeter to the right or left.

Olive also has the unique ability to telekinetically transport herself from anywhere inside the house to directly behind me when I am calling her. I walk around like an idiot, calling, “Olive, Olive, where are you, come here,” convinced that A) she is somewhere impersonating Steve McQueen in the classic “The Great Escape,” or B) she is quietly wreaking havoc. And then, just as I turn around, I see her quietly seated behind me, wearing a goofy Alfred E. Neuman-like smile.