Grrroomed

Today marked one of those momentous occasions for Duncan and me, and not because of some grand event but for something quite mundane: he got a haircut. His first, in fact. I spend plenty of time brushing him, although not as much as I should, and he gets a bath every now and then, but he's never been professionally groomed until today. We spent some time last night discussing it on our walk, talking about what to expect and how things would go, but I'm not quite sure he quite grasped what was going to happen.

Diane is an excellent dog groomer, a patient and kind woman who gave up her job as a software developer to do something that fed her spirit a little more. So she cashed in her options, converted her garage into a shop and opened a grooming business. I liked her immediately, with her short hair and small, open elvish face, kind eyes and warm laugh. Duncan took to her immediately, but once she placed him in the tub and started spraying him with water he wasn't so pleased. He tolerated it, somewhat reluctantly, staring at me with woeful eyes and whining pitifully, which, despite my enthusiasm for a clean, trimmed dog, was heart-wrenching. But he was adorable in his wet-dog way, skinny and pathetic, with those big brown eyes staring at me, bigger than they'd ever been, and he kept kissing Diane, as a diversionary tactic, trying to tempt her with his tremendous love and kindness and sheer cuteness.

It wasn't until she attempted to dry him, though, that things got really nasty. Dunc did not like the drier at all, and as he flailed and thrashed about, I gathered my things and stepped out of the shop, walking down the alley in the vain hope of getting out of earshot of his cries. Having played the role of Mister Curt for a bunch of four-year olds several years ago, I know that the continued presence of mom and dad often feeds anxiety on everyone's part and that things tend to calm down once mom and dad remove themselves from the situation. I stayed outside for the remainder of his haircut and heavy brushing not wishing to make Diane's work any harder or prolong Duncan's fear. It was not pleasant, listening to him bark and whine and howl for me, and as I spoke with Ken on the phone I told him I felt a bit like a helpless parent who has taken their child to the doctor and must endure the wails and shrieks as a shot is given. Duncan was in no pain or danger, he'd just never been groomed, and despite my long talk with him did not know what was happening.

But in the end Diane won him over and we'll be back. He looks amazing, better either Ken or I have looked in months in fact, and I know we'll be returning. If only I could talk Diane into washing and trimming my hair. I'd promise not to shriek quite as much when she turns the drier on. There's only one tiny problem. Somehow or another I ended up with poor Diane's phone in my pocket. I'll take it back to her tomorrow, pray for her forgiveness and hope she's kind enough to allow us back.

Despite telling Duncan that he wouldn't be allowed outside for the rest of the weekend, if only so I can enjoy all Diane's hard work and get the most bang for my buck, we went for a long walk in the park. He made quite the striking figure, with none of that ratty, unruly hair flying all over the place. He seemed to know he looked and smelled good, and walked with his head held high and his tail wagging back and forth. It was quite the contrast from Skeeter, our Cocker Spaniel, who hid under the table for days after being groomed.

It didn't last for long, though. No sooner has we passed the last group of weekend revelers than my boy got back at me for the torture that had been inflicted on him all afternoon.

It's a good thing he's so dang cute and I love him as much as I do!

Flashback: Mom and Skeeter

While Duncan took a few tentative steps in the small creek that runs through Lilley Gulch this morning––his first since his spectacular swim on Easter afternoon––I remembered my childhood dog, Skeeter, a large, hairy and tenacious Cocker Spaniel who may have been part Wookiee. Skeet was the first dog in Idaho to survive Parvo, had been shot in the back, ate an entire triple layer chocolate birthday cake, jumped out of the back of a moving truck and was under one when my former step-dad ran over him, crushing his hip. But he hung on for twelve years and was a good dog––albeit not the best-smelling one––up until the end.

While Duncan waded and licked the cool stream, I remembered the time my family, including the step-siblings, went camping at the Blackfoot Reservoir in southeast Idaho. We'd set up camp not far from one of the docks but far enough way that we were protected from the the smell of the thick, green water. That summer, a particularly warm one, the top of the entire lake was covered in an algae so thick and foul-smelling it prevented us from swimming and left a heavy coat of green fur on anything that came into contact with it.

The seven of us were standing on the edge of the dock waiting to climb into the boat for an afternoon of fishing when Skeeter took a running jump and did an enormous belly-flop into the water. He'd never swam before and we were all a bit anxious to see what he'd do. Dogs are natural swimmers, right? Surely he'd know what to do. He didn't swim, that's for sure. There was a moment he seemed to sit on the surface, perhaps by the sheer thickness of the algae, and then slowly, very slowly began to sink, slipping under the surface until all that remained was a floating mass of formerly blond, now quite green hair. It hung for a moment, drifting lazily under the sun before it was finally pulled down into the muck. We stood frozen and silent, waiting for him to surface, but after several long seconds of silence the dock erupted into a frenzy with the kids darting back and forth, screaming and crying in a panic. Dan just sort of sat in the boat watching and waiting. It was my mother who finally took control. She pulled off her enormous sunglasses, handed them to me, along with her soda and Marlboro 100's then kicked off her shoes.

"Hold these," she said.

"Why? What are you doing?" I stammered, glancing from her to the wretched and foul boat-landing water.

"I'm going in," she told me.

"In there?" I gasped. Apparently the water was foul enough that I'd rather have risked my dog's life than put myself into it.

"What if he came up under the dock?" Mom said. "I've got to get to him!" She bent at the hips, kept her back straight, leaned forward but just as she prepared to dive Skeeter surfaced, fifteen or so feet away. We jumped up and shouted encouragement at him and he turned, his long blond hair now green and matted around his face. He paddled furiously toward us and when he reached the dock Mom and Dan leaned over and heaved him up, where he immediately shook himself silly.

No one would have much to do with poor Pete-Pete––as we sometimes called him––for the rest of the trip. But I do remember being locked in the camper with him on the unending drive home, the windows open and five little faces pressed against the screens trying to catch some clean, fresh air.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom. Thanks for being a hero to dogs! Skeeter certainly appreciated it, and I know you'd do the same for Duncan today. Or maybe instead of handing me your things you'd simply offer to take mine. I love you.