They're Baaack!
They've grown dreadfully shaggy, our two little dogs. A grooming lasts only a month or so, before they begin to look unkempt. They're Poodles, after all, a breed which has a habit of growing its hair forever and a day. Somewhat like we humans. They do not, as most other breeds do, lose their hair. Someone was once heard to muse that if a Poodle's hair was not cut, it would outgrow and overgrow the poor animal's ability to cope. I can believe it. I can hardly believe it's been just a month since last I took scissors to hand and snipped, snipped.
As I did this afternoon. Setting up shop under the shade of our large old pine tree in the front garden. Laying out a black cotton cape, left over from some unfortunate Hallowe'en-suited child skipping merrily from house to house shouting "trick or treat". We found the treat on the driveway the following morning, and have ever since used it for barbering. I seat myself on a comfortable pillow, turn first Button, then Riley, upside down before me and select one size scissors after another to pursue the task at hand. Rendering them presentable. For at least one day - two days at most.
And thus were we occupied this afternoon, when a cheerful little voice brought me to the reality that we were performing thusly in a very public, albeit privately-owned space. The oldest of the three little sisters newly moved into the house down the street stood by the curb before where we sat some twenty feet distant and enquired whether we'd like some company. Heaven forfend that I might insult a child by denying her wish to present herself for lively conversation while I am busy concentrating on a task as tedious and as wrought with danger as that upon which I was engaged.
She joined us, sat on the fresh green grass beside us, and chatted amiably, commenting on how well Button was behaving (Button, meanwhile, desperately hating her helpless situation, on her back between my outstretched legs, my arms reaching forward with scissors, snipping at her facial hair, fetching a tiny blunt-edged scissors to cut the hair inside her ears, and then really irritating her beyond comprehension by beginning to cut the wild puffs of hair between her foot pads. She lifts her head toward my hand and snaps, but without determining to make physical contact. I get the message, and deliver one to her: "be still!", and she subsides, only to rise again at another provocation.
Meanwhile, our audience widens, as two more little girls happen upon the scene, not realizing that this is really a torture contest between the human and the canine. They're incredulous that someone would be doing such a thing: wielding a scissors and snipping at the hair of a defenceless little dog. One of the girls ventures the opinion that the hair could be collected, and "something nice" could conceivably be made of it. Well yes, I tell her, it makes excellent compost, we can put it into the compost pile and it will deteriorate just like the kitchen waste does, and the end result will be rich compostable material for the garden.
She looks perplexed, somewhat deflated; not quite what she meant. I know what she meant, the dear child, for her youngest sister had had her long tangled locks cut not long ago, the hair earmarked for the shop of a dedicated wig-maker, the ensuing wig meant to cover the naked head of a child undergoing chemotherapy. These truly are dear, aware, sociable and sweet children, and I am fortunate beyond belief to be able to chat with them, to delve into their awareness of the world about them.
Well, finally, the last two little girls arrive, the two young girls who live side by side, one half the size of the other, although only two years separate them. And again I sigh: where were these girls, this richness of childhood when we were helping to raise our granddaughter up until a scant six months ago, when we dreamed what heaven it would be if only there were nearby neighbours with young girls with whom she could play?
Finally, after an hour or so, and both dogs' haircuts complete, we end the session with the girls chasing Button, trying to catch her and wrest her beloved ball away so they could throw it for her, and watch her retrieval, catching the ball in flight. This never fails to amaze them, they want to watch her spot-on performance time and again. But Riley is smaller and, they think, cuter, and all of them want to hold him. He's heavier than he looks, I tell them, but they don't believe me, until I lift him and settle him into their uncertain arms, one after another, while he looks at me desperately, begging for immediate rescue.
Later, when we're in the house, me in the kitchen preparing dinner, and he in the family room, reading, there is the doorbell, calling out for response. My husband goes out to speak with the two little girls standing excitedly on the porch, telling him they just had to share an adventure with him. They had just caught a frog in the backyard - and, they proudly tell him - we let him go! Wonderful says he, he'll be certain to tell me all about it.
Before they leave, he asks what colour it was. Green, he tells them, is the colour most frogs are, and they live in water. It's more likely, he says, that they encountered a toad, and that's good news, since we haven't seen many lately, as a result of too many people in the area using pesticides and herbicides on their lawns.
The little girls nod sagely, happily, and turn to leave, shouting over their shoulders that they'll see us again. Yes we've no doubt they most certainly will.
posted by Pieface @ Wednesday, August 30, 2006
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