Grendal has a rash. I’m not sure if she got it at her last trip to the groomers or if it just became noticeable after her haircut, but it really doesn’t matter. The end result is the same. I have to bath and shave her myself—which means she looks a little like she’s tangled with a lawn mower. I could go back to the groomers and:
A. Point out the nasty rash that came from their nastiness (or not, since I don’t know) and demand compensation for a trip to the vet and medicine
B. Feign ignorance and expose other dogs to nasty rashiness and perhaps be banned forever from Wendy’s Poodle Place. (Just reward, I think—I’d ban me, too.)
But I’ve chosen the clippers and medicated shampoo route. Grendal does mind the bath and her sentence with the clippers. She knows exactly what’s up when I run the bath and lock the door. She suffers through the whole ordeal with her head bowed, meek, submissive. But when it’s all over, she’s okay with the haircut. Dogs are great that way—they’re not even a little bit vain. Getting a bath and a haircut is just part of being a Schnauzer. Something all Schnauzers must endure.
My friend has a doggy groomer that comes to her house every two weeks. She doesn’t have to go Wendy’s Poodle Place. The doggy mobile comes, parks in front of her house and voila—a well groomed Cockapoo I tell myself I can’t afford the doggy mobile, but on days when I dream of my books selling much better than they currently are—I dream of a traveling doggy groomer, a cleaning lady, and a gardener. Someone who will happily do all the nitty-gritty bits of my life so I can focus on a story where all spills and messes are quickly cleaned up, all the plants live long and healthy lives and Schnauzers have perfectly trimmed beards.