Toilette Time!
They've become shaggy beyond belief. Their neat little bodies no longer quite visible under the weight of all those unkempt curls and curliques. The fuzz between the pads on their feet is so long that they pick up all manner of detritus marching through the woods. Their topknots are so long they can no longer sustain the usual proud uplifted profile, but instead long tufts of hair slide here and there over the tops of their heads. They no longer look sleek and handsome, but rather, well, they're not all that bad. They look kind of like unshorn sheep, or burly little teddy bears. Truly they've earned nicknames like "fatty rascoon". Yes, they're still cute, we still admire the tough-guy, tousled little monsters, but svelt-looking they are not.
Perfect day for a haircut. Not too warm, the sun hiding nicely behind clouds, and no rain in sight. So I assemble the tools required, starting with a cushion for my backside, and a nice rectangular cloth, black on one side, red the other (actually a cape, belonging to a Hallowe'en costume some unfortunate little "trick-or-treater" lost many years ago on our driveway, in the hustle-bustle of acquiring enough candy to keep the local dentist in trade for years to come). A plastic bag to collect the hair in. A pair of good reading glasses, the better to see them close-up and personal with. A hair brush, doggy-type. Our collection of various-sized scissors, including the rounded-end ears scissors.
What's missing? Oh yes, the dogs. They're nowhere to be seen. Are they stupid? Can they read the signs of impending discomfort and discomfiture? Yes indeed. I've spread the Dracula cape on the grass under the large pine tree, lest the sun show itself and provide the discomfort of direct glare when I turn the little beggars upside-down. And set upon it the pillow destined to cushion my posterior. Riley is outside with me, but Button, all-knowing, all-seeing, all-too-clever, has not emerged with us, and I stick my head through the side door and call her repeatedly. To no avail.
Finally she exits the house, not eagerly to be sure, but under the influence of the Master of the House, who deposits her neatly on the outspread cape, enabling me to begin my ministrations. Ah, the long-suffering Button; she knows what's coming and she could be happier. Still, she's a good girl today and allows me, on suffrance to be sure, to trim her ears, her snout, her topknot, all around her eyes. And look at that, I can actually see the sweet little face, formerly hidden behind all that hair! Next comes the paws, and they're a real source of irritation; her front paws are not to be trifled with, and she struggles, but to no avail. I've got her positioned on her back in front of me, and as I lean over her protesting body, she submits finally and lets me get on with it.
Good thing I'm in fairly flexible shape, since it takes at least an hour to complete the job of trimming both little dogs. From the foot pads and the paws I move down the legs, and snip-snip-snip. Then on to the tummies, the flanks, and ta-da! we spring upright and the trimming continues around her tail, her back, her neck, and then I have a good look to determine what we've missed. This day she's uncharacteristically submissive, and she's soon able to trot off, the job done, a prisoner of the salon no longer. If I do this in the house, say during the winter months she immediately trots (downstairs or upstairs as the case may be) in search of He Who Reigns Supreme In This House, to show off her jaunty new looks for his approval. And he always approves, he always praises her so she struts about in pride.
The little male is next, and because his hair tends not to grow as thickly as hers does, and he's considerably smaller, his parts easier to get at, the job is done in slightly less time. Characteristically, while he's on his back, he stretches his neck as far out of my reach (he thinks) as he can manage, turning his head completely flat on the ground, so I have to grasp that little head and bring it back toward me to enable me to proceed with the job at hand. He too favours his front paws and resists, realizing all the while that resistance is futile. Finally he submits and appears to be in complete slumber (is that relaxation or not?) until I'm finally done. And then, after brushing the loose hair away from his coat before dismissing him, he doesn't want to leave my side.
He soon decides otherwise when we enter the house and he hears me beginning to fill up one of the upstairs bathtubs, and takes refuge under a large upholstered chair in the family room. She's first anyway, and she loves water, so she offers no resistance and before long she's had her bath, including the rigmarole of dry-up, and I coax, and talk him out from under the chair to begin the same with him. Unlike her, he's never been a water dog, never wanted to plunge into a lake to swim about and retrieve tossed sticks. While they're both drying off completely from the encounter with the bathtub, they go berserk, completely charged up. She, rushing about with her ball, insisting that it be thrown for one retrieval after another, and he to plunge himself deep into the bowels of our bed to do somersaults and deep dives and self-administered rub-downs.
So for one day, two at most, they look most presentable, very attractive little show-offs. Still, since they're both scamps and rough-necks at heart, it doesn't take long before their usual mien reasserts itself, and we once again see fatty rascoon emerge from coiffed poodle.
posted by Pieface @ Thursday, July 06, 2006
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