The Divine Ms Em

Happy Mother's Day

Everyone has those days where you feel like someone is yanking your strings for their sadistic little puppet show.  The past Friday was such a spectacle.  First the shop’s air conditioning decided to protest leaving the shop a balmy 85 degrees.  You would think with the three of us living in Florida over a decade we’d be able to manage heat, but instantly we turned into cranky princesses ready to pick a fight as we wilted.  Oh and fun had just begun!  To add insult to injury, the main force dryer decided that if the AC was on strike that he should join in as well.  This of course was while we had 5 goldens and 2 golden doodles on the books.  I got bit twice (one by a new client and the other from a  8 week nemesis) and throughout this fabulous day some lovely clients decided that rather than ignoring the TIP line on their credit slip decided a giant slash or X was in order.

Basically, by the time I reached my doorstep I was a blubbering, estrogen fuelled, hormonal, hot mess.  As I greeted my family, instantly my husband realized all was not well.  He did what any man would do in his position, gave me a quick hug, said he was sorry and ran for the nearest exit with fishing pole in hand.  Shouting from his truck, which was hurriedly backing out of the drive, he assured me things would get better and he’d be back at sundown.

While mentally assessing how to dispose of his carcass in our pond, after his recent display of concern, I plopped on the couch.  Instantly I was assaulted by furry and furless children.  The furless variety decided it was the opportune time to bestow all their Mother’s Day presents they had been  in school all week.  Too exhausted to move, I found myself the new proud owner of an elephant pot, a ceramic fish and a trivet.  Just when I thought the public school sweatshop had produced all the goodies it could, then came the true gem, my 7yr old daughter’s card.

The outside had the traditional hand art.  This time fashioned into a butterfly, but the inside note was what caught my attention. 

“MY MOMMY IS VERY NICE.  SHE IS 33 YEARS OLD. SHE IS 9 FEET TALL AND WEIGHTS 98 POUNDS.  HER HAIR IS RED-ORANGE AND HER EYE ARE BLUE.  SHE LIKE TO SLEEP BEST OF ALL.  SHE DOES NOT LIKE EATING.  WHEN I AM BAD SHE SAYS GO TO MY ROOM.  WHEN I AM GOOD SHE SAYS GOOD GIRL.  WHEN I GROW UP I WANT TO BE ARTTISED.  I <3 YOU MOMMY.  LORNA 5-2-13”

After reading this opus, I about peed my pants.  The frustration of the earlier events was quickly forgotten.  However, I do feel I need to point out some unique aspects of this composition.  First off for a Mother’s Day card it had an eerie similarity to a missing persons report or a description one might give the cops of a suspect.  Secondly, there was some artistic license taken by my little author here, so I feel I need to clear some things up.

1) I am not 33!  I’m 29 and was born on a cold Feb. day in 1984.  Don’t believe me! Feel free to ask my mother who will happily recount the tale at the most inopportune time.

2) Unless my daughter is utilizing some new form of measurement or the metric system, I’m nowhere near 9ft tall.  On a brave heel wearing day I’m a good 5’4.

3)  Once again this alien form of measurement rears its head again with 98lbs.  I’ll take it, but in all likelihood she forgot to place that 1 somewhere.

4) Yes, my hair is red, but red-orange makes me think I should have Béla Károlyi shouting at me as member of an Eastern European gymnastic team or something.

5) I do have EYES, plural.  Four if you count the glasses.

6) I do enjoy a good snooze.  Wonder why?  I only get up at 5:30 every morning, take kids to school, work, pick up kids, dinner, activities and clean.

7)  I don’t like to eat?!  HAHA let’s just say I’m a firm believer that while men have beer and big boobed bimbos with sports car names to drown their sorrows, women have the trifecta: carbs, wine and Johnny Depp to cure what ails ya.  And two of those three aren't waistline friendly!

8)  You’re darn right you go to your room and thank heavens you gave the G-rated version.  Whew!  Somehow manual labor or nose in the corner doesn’t sound nearly as nice.

9)  Yes, you are a good girl.  TREAT. CLICK. SIT. TREAT. CLICK. 

10)  I know you love to draw Lorna, but after this I have a feeling you have a give for fictional literature as well.

Lost in Translation

It was one of those no good, very bad, completely rotten days!  The weather waged war against me, with a steady rain and high humidity.  No dog stood a chance of being dry.  My head felt like it was in a vice grip and of course every functional moron decided to drive like Mario Andretti on these slick roads.  To top it off it was a Wednesday, which meant only thing, surviving the Smejkal girls.

The Smejkal senoritas and I had a love/hate relationship.  I loved the dogs and their sweet mother, but hated trying to groom these saucy little Latin ladies.  Three baby girls in total, and not a single one without a grooming quirk.  Then as some cosmic joke, of course the mother of these challenging children wanted them primped and pampered EVERY week.  I do swear that he man upstairs has a wicked sense of humor sometimes.

Eldest, and best behaved of the girls, was Lola.  On paper, of which mother proudly displayed, she was a Shih Tzu.  However, she more resembled a reverse bobble-head or the headhunter from “Beetlejuice” with her tiny head and massive frame.  Not only was she odd to look at, but suffered from bi-polar disorder, for while being groomed she’d snarl and growl…all the while wagging her tail and sneaking in kisses.  If something really rubbed her wrong, a snip to keep you line was in order, promptly followed by an affectionate kiss.  Lola needed Dr Phil.

Next was Pichu, the mini wookie, or shih-poo.  Adorable without a mean bone in her body, she too found ways to drive me insane.  Her tactic was what I call the “ironing board effect.”  To achieve this, one keeps their body hunched up and rigid like a folded up ironing board.  Then with the slightest touch your whole body escapes you, and flops around.  As frustrating as this was, the grand finale was yet to emerge.

And then there was Mia, or better known as “Her Royal Highness.”  The real boss of the house and diva supreme, this Shih Tzu took no prisoners.  Always the smelliest and needing the most attention,  do the “ironing board”, snip, growl and then when all else failed employ bio-chemical warfare; urinate and defecate till she got her way.

For the past few years, I’d tried everything to wrangle in these wild children.  Nothing outsmarted or deterred their rebellious ways.  So needless to say when this no good, rotten, very bad, Wednesday ended I was not in the most patient of spirits. Of course, this meant my human children could not resist the urge to act up. 

Flopping down lifelessly on the couch, they started.  The banging, screaming and tattling was of an exceptional level.  Then it happened, the moment when mom has had enough and is so frustrated that her children’s names elude her and the colorful phrases of my Bluegrass roots come out.  Things like “Don’t pee on my leg and tell me it’s rainin!,”  “I’ll paint your back door!” or simply..”BOY….or  GIRL”   Of course the more frustrated I get more of my normally slight accent turns into hillbilly.

As each kid darted for their rooms, realizing mom was having a conniption.  It dawned on me…I knew how to talk to the Smejkal girls!  Instantly, I fired up the laptop to arm myself for next Wednesday’s battle.  Next time I was going to be prepared and get through to them.  

So next Wednesday arrived quickly, and the three amigas were up to their usual tricks.  However, with the first push of rebellion I came out with the secret weapon.  In my best Spanish accent I sternly said “No! “  In one choreographed motion, all three turned and looked at me.  They knew the party was over; the inner Hispanic momma had come out.  The rest of the groom went much smoother; thanks to my Spanish accent and few key phrases I’d Googled the week prior.  The answer was simple, when they were naughty their Spanish-speaking mother, who normally spoke clean English, had my type of conniption fit and reverted to roots.  The grooming requests were getting lost in translation, so these little furry children did what any kids would do, ignore me.  However, now I spoke their language, the Fiesta was over and I was no longer their piñata.

When in doubt....

While perusing Facebook, I came across yet another grooming album that left me in shock, horror and amazement.  The photos that penetrated my computer screen into my delicate psyche were those of a Groom Team member, who had once again taken a homeless looking cur who then by some suspect means a Westminster winner emerges.  Some may claim its talent, dedication and hard work, but this is all complete nonsense, so the search for the truth of this miracle began.

Now upon first inspection, I was sure witchcraft was afoot.  This sort of transformation was unnatural and had to be the work of the supernatural….if not witchcraft than perhaps some sort of barter with a demon.  So as I gathered my wits and plotted how one might acquire holy water, I took a moment to compose myself on the couch.

Trembling on the sofa, I hesitantly turned on the television.  In a flash the answer came to me!  As I stared into the wisdom that is The History Channel (you know the one that used to carry documentaries, but lately defines history as “Schoot ‘em Elizabeth!”) I was dumb founded how the answer had originally eluded me…..its aliens duh!  Had I truly forgotten the creed of my generation, “if you can’t explain it, chances are it was Sasquatch or aliens.”  In this instance the latter applies.

Thanks to the wild haired prophet on the screen, it was ridiculously simple.  The groomer in question, and those akin to her, aren’t witches or wizards, but rather privy to supreme knowledge brought to them from the heavens via extraterrestrials.  The more I pondered over this nugget the more the evidence smacked me across the face that these beings have always meddled in canine affairs.

It’s generally accepted that ETs travel via a spaceship of some form.  What is the most widely accepted shape of this craft; a flying saucer.  Anyone that has owned a border collie or Aussie could tell you what that resembles.  A flat disc whizzing through the air….its a frisbee!  How could I have been so blind!

Then there is the hot topic of alien abduction.  There seems to be a disproportionately high number of “redneck” victims.  Some might argue this is due to the delusions of those with perhaps less education and knowledge outside their rural surroundings, but if I was a canine loving extraterrestrial who better to abduct than a good ole boy who probably owns 5-6 hunting dogs.

As for the proceedings of the abductions, a fetish of the rear seems to be a common report.  Now at first, it appears to be a humiliating ritual.  However, think like a canine and it takes on a whole new meaning.  How do dogs greet each other?  Sometimes it just takes a good ole sniff of the derriere to determine if one if friend or foe. 

Some argue that these higher life forms imparted wisdom on our ancient ancestors, such as the Egyptians.  Sitting back I took a look at pyramids, which are essentially cones.  Then the humorous saying on the t-shirt I was wearing instantly mocked me; “It’s all fun and games, till someone ends up in a cone.”  These ancient structures are eerily similar to an upturned Elizabethan collar!  Coincidence I think not!

Although, I’ve found much peace in the knowledge that dark forces are not behind these groomer’s superhuman abilities, there are still many more questions to ponder.  How did these individuals make it into the inner circle and gain the knowledge of these supreme beings?  What is the purpose or possible leap for the species that their blatant superiority amongst the rest of us “little ole dog groomers” will achieve?  Hopefully through further scientific study and pondering the secrets of the heavens shall be revealed.

Matted Mutt Month

In retrospect, I’ve decided that while February is pet dental health month, January surely is matted mutt month.  Those clients who may have forgone the appointments in between Thanksgiving and Christmas, suddenly finding their pockets heavier with monetary gifts, all crawled out of the woodwork this past month.  With each pelted pet, came the barrage of excuses and barging tactics to avoid the dreaded buzz cut.  Since, when dealing with the clients I have to keep my internal monologue for decorum’s sake I’ve decided to analyze and comment on all these lovely matted mutt excuses.

Mother Nature Did It- Why take the blame when you can place it on the climatic forces shaping our planet for millions of years?  Normally, our good ole friend rain and snow are the fall men, since apparently during these natural phenomena months of meticulous brushing are seemingly undone instantly.  Although, one client decided to mix it up a bit and blame the wind, since the dog likes to ride in the convertible with the top down.  During its transport from home to my shop front there must havebeen a hurricane or tornado causing to the skin tangles, since upon arrival it was matted.

Blame Your Babysitter- Nothing says love like throwing your pet sitter under the bus, especially if they watched your baby for free, i.e. those grandparents and siblings.   

He Won’t Let Me- 
So your loved pet, whom you feed and have a bond with, is surely going to let this stranger abducting him from his family and employing these barbaric tools (de-matters, combs and brushes) put him through hours of “fun.”  Oh silly me!

Dead Beat Family Member- My spouse or kids are supposed to take care of him, and their dead beat ways have caused this since I am incapable of breaking this code and lending a hand.  What good are kids for if not for manual labor and taking care of us when we get older?  If not for dog’s lack of opposable thumbs and shorter life span, kids would be inferior technology.  These indentured servants need to earn their keep!

Temporary Blindness- My dog’s not matted!  Yes, you’re right.  So if that dog’s not matted then surely I’m not a short, chubby, white woman, but rather a 6 foot tall African American super model.  Just call me Tyra.

The Tangled Trinity- When one excuse isn’t enough, then use any trio of the above choices.

It'll Come Right Out-  Wow, you're right!  Now where did I leave that magic wand again?  Must be right next to that unicorn or the holy grail I keep around here.

Predator Protection- This was a completely new one that came my way this year.  Apparently they had a hawk circling their back yard while their maltese used the facilities, until he was sportting an over grown urine scented mess.  I do think their fear that a hawk could fly off with their 25 lbs maltese, might be pushing it.  But in all honestly, I think the hawk probably feared food poisoning.

Modest Mutt- My pet hides and is embarrassed after you shave him.  Well, I’d gather after being encased in a follicle cocoon, with restricted movement (think that kid on the Christmas Story with the parka) that I too would find it odd to suddenly be free and buck naked.

Broke Budget- I can’t afford to have them groomed except on an annual or semiannual basis.  Trust me I feel your pain, since grooming has yet to leave me independently wealthy.  However, past the $15 initial investment, combing and brushing in between visits is free.  Plus, your message is a bit lost when you pull up in a Lexus and try to haggle with me as you pull your form of payment out of a Coach bag.  No one put a gun to your head and said buy three doodles, perhaps Chihuahuas were really more your speed.

That's Why I Pay You- Yes, your patronage annually or semiannually is worth spending hours of torturing a dog, turning down additional grooms and risking an injury. Then you act shocked when you're charged accordingly, when you did say you PAY me to do this.

Rat Chic- Your pet will no longer be cute, since apparently homeless and eau de pee is in or at least closer to AKC standard than a buzz. Thus, I will have worked a modern miracle and turned your canine into a rodent.  While, I will agree a buzzed yorkie does resemble a NYC rat, let it be noted that in some cultures, particularly India, there are temples devoted to holy rats.

 

 

The Man-Child's New Do!

I harbor a transient, or at least that is what he most resembles to me.  Despite or perhaps in rebellion of his stint in the navy, my man-child has turned into a wooly beast.  While in truth the man is showered; the long hair and wild ZZ Top beard, in addition to his wardrobe of t-shirts (usually of fishing or hunting), ripped jeans and work boots are quite deceiving.  Hence once, or if I’m lucky twice a year, I get to shave down my own husband.

This particular shave down started like any other, with a good dose of pestering.  Employing my wifely skills of pestering, I had for weeks whined about how it was time for his semi-annual shave down.  While I do enjoy the benefit of looking even better next to such an untamed beast, his hair had finally reached a point where a mullet began to form.  I already live in a trailer, in the middle of nowhere; I really didn’t desire this final nail in the coffin of redneckdom.  So sulking in the kitchen, arms folded, scowl painted on and with much huffing and puffing, the man-child sat awaiting his “summer cut.”

Quickly, I went to setting out my equipment which I had brought home from work.  I had armed myself for battle; clipper, metal comb attachments, shears and benders.  However, just as I was able to begin the shaving ritual, the peanut gallery decided to pipe up and pitch a fit.  “Emily, I’m not a dog!”  “You can’t use the same clippers you use to shave dog butt on my head!”  Internally, I thought to myself, why on Earth not!  You’re sure acting like a behind and you’re about as thick coated as any chow.  But unwilling to start a fight, I hesitantly went to procure the cheap human hair cutting kit from our bathroom.  Of course there was some muttering under my breath involved.

Typically, when shaving a man-child I use a metal #2 comb, so I had to eye the flimsy plastic human variety for a few moments to decide which one was comparable.  Caving to the demands, I had the human equipment ready to roll and began to shear him down.  Unable to help himself, the whole while he continued to lecture on how and why I shouldn’t use MY equipment on him.  Gritting my teeth I struggled to get these clippers through the jungle of hair.  Not made for this kind of work load, they continued to bog down and catch.  The man-child in turn grew restless; beginning to wiggle and question what I was doing.

I was about ready to scruff him, in hopes of shutting him up and holding him still, the unthinkable happened.  The flimsy plastic comb popped off and a lovely bald streak was left in its wake.  I screamed in shock and terror, as my husband felt the smooth strip going down the back of his head.  Silence.  Trying to fill the void I explained what had happened and spewed apologies.  Expecting the barrage of verbiage after such an incident the man shocked me with a simple answer in a steady tongue. “Darn it, make it even now.”  And so it was that I sheepishly buzzed his locks to his skin, and unleashed my redneck version of Mr. Clean.  Let me add that some men can not pull off the bald look, and my scar ridden, odd skull-shaped man was definitely one of them.

After months of being the butt of the job site jokes, his locks had returned and so had the strategic pestering.  Once again, he relented to a shave down.  However, when I went to procure the human clippers this time the peanut gallery piped up.  “Umm get your dog ones.”  “I’d rather be shaved with a pair of dog butt clippers than have to look like a baboon’s backside again.”  Hmmm, I suppose lesson learned!

Holiday Hoorah!

Oh!!! Tis the season!  Finally, there is closure to the sprint that is the week prior to Christmas.  A week filled with grooming emergencies, that had endured for months prior but, with the eminent kin folk’s arrival MUST be addressed.  My #10 blade, seeing more action previous months, faithfully plowed through pelts.  At times, I felt as if I should have a stash of ugly sweaters to dutifully hand out with each naked baby returned safely.  This surely must be the year of the rat, because there were more than enough pink, naked ones to pass around.  

As these grooming emergencies and faithful clients were tackled, mounds of sweets formed and willpower became non-existent.  Not daring to take a break from the mass of puppies requiring our attention, the choice to graze the offerings of our well-intentioned clients was made.  Just a cookie as I check this shih tzu in, and a chocolate while I await an available tub here.  Then, as to rationalize the chocolate and cookie gluttony, the choice to frequent our strip center neighbor, the pizza parlor seemed poignant.  With all these goodies, the need for “real” food was determined, in order to keep strength and morale up.  Those 40 plus dogs weren’t going to groom themselves, so our team had to be in it for the long haul.  Despite our combined intelligence, gooey melted cheese and garlic butter crest became the nutritional substance of choice over the diabetic nightmare.  Heaven only knows our glucose levels and extra poundage, or as I lovingly call it hibernation preparations.  Curse the Mayan’s and their false hope that I wouldn’t have to worry about a New Year’s resolution diet!

Despite less than nutritionally sound rations and the exodus of grooms descending upon our shop, we soldiered on.  Our medical supplies were well stocked and put to good use.  Band aids of all sizes and adorned with all manner of cartoon characters, were employed for skirmishes with Grinch-like pets and self inflicted, klutz moments.  Despite fatigue our personal blood was spilt at a minimum.  Every variety of pain reliever was available, from Tylenol to ibuprofen, for those moments where the 6 hrs of screaming beagle in the back had reached a crescendo.  To tackle the after effects of temporary insanity, lifting/ struggling with the 150 lab, a stash of muscle soothing ointments and heat patches had been gathered.  All were employed and eventually aided in clenching a victory on the holiday rush.

Thus, we have emerged victorious from the holiday carnage.  With all our digits intact and a reasonable amount of mental capacity left, the next few days will be a time for finally celebrating the season with our own families.  Now as with any battle, there are always marks left behind.  One cannot survive such an epic annual event unscathed, we suffer from post traumatic holiday grooming syndrome.  Hence, I shall be the plump, narcoleptic, hobbling figure in the corner, emerging from a sugar fuelled coma.  So please remember to take good pictures and ignore my snoring.

Dynamic Duo

As I recuperate from the past two days of gluttony, there by my foot is the most recent and possibly  important member of the Rupe pack; Calvin.  With each loving gaze from those brown eyes, I get a bit misty.  The reasons and manner of his addition to our family, as well as his impact seem a fitting tale for the season.

The Rupe human pack consists of the man-child (hubby), the Evil One (Lorna, the 6yr old, master of manipulation who will either one day be president or in jail) and Wes.  Wes is the 8yr old equivalent of Michael Cera.  For all his strengths in intelligence, each day he struggles with the coordination of his gangly little frame and the treacherous social navigation of elementary school.  Then much akin to child far older, he puts extreme pressure for perfection in all his school work.  When told his progress report was marred with a B, a meltdown occurred and he requested a full transcript to get a finer grasp on this very real crisis.  The begging of this year was a Russian Roulette of whether the boy would come home in good spirits or in a defeated mess of tears.  With each sob of “Why can’t I be normal?!” or “I’m such an idiot!” my heart went out to him.  However, it is a fine line between supporting your child and bearing an overbearing ninny.  The boy would eventually need the skills to fight his own battles and forge his own path.

Now in typical male fashion, my husband cried sports or dragging him out into the wilderness.  Why Not?!  The man-child loves nothing better than pretending he’s the last Florida Cracker, so why should his only male heir find it any less appealing?  Needless to say after a few forced outings, Wes protested the long hours stuck in a tree stand or waking while the moon was high to fish.  Meanwhile, his sister happily took his role as co-conspirator to all of the man-child’s wild adventures, of course while rocking her best outfit and hairdo.

So on a weekend where the dynamic duo was out battling Mother Nature, I took my boy wonder with me to a dog show.  Instantly, he was intrigued by al the breeds and spectacle.  A plan slowly hatched in my head.  How about letting him try his hand at junior handling?    

Now in true groomer fashion, I had a variety of collogues offer up their aid and animals.  A brilliant groomer/breeder offered to let him borrow a bichon, but secretly I cringed knowing the level of the grooming it would require.  Then a long time friend/comrade came up with a possible solution.  One of her Aussie puppies was being returned after a year abroad.  Already house trained and small in stature this bitch might be Wes next best friend.  However, her Aussie breeding partner, Mari, too might have an option or know of one if the small female wouldn’t be a match.  She suggested I come to the partner’s property with Wes and meet both dogs just as fun get together.

Of course Wes was a bundle of energy, and was reiterated to many times that we are not getting another dog necessarily.  We were here to see the dogs and talk with the breeders.  I’d seen my fair share of insane, untrained, destructive Aussie’s in my grooming career and quite frankly was skeptical.  I already have an out of control Boston, the last thing I needed was another problem child.

Of course upon arrival I greeted my friend and was introduced to the person who would forever touch our lives, Mari.  The petite female was huddling behind my friend’s legs.  She was precious, but very timid.  Her shy demeanor was not the only consideration to take into account.  Unbeknownst to my  until her return, this pup had suffered a leg injury that had not healed properly, thus leaving a sizable knot on one of her rear legs.  This meant that while she’d make a loving and devoted pet to whomever they placed her with, she could not be shown and could face restrictions on her future activity level.  While taking in all the pro’s and con’s of this dear dog, Mari insisted we look at one of her babies, a 2yr old from a former agility household.   Figuring it couldn’t hurt; we waited patiently while she went to produce this possible match.

From around the bend popped a goofy tri-color, with perky ears and a butt that was wiggling a mile a minute; his name was Calvin.  Instantly, Wes took the leash and off they went to check out the ducks and other barnyard critters.  While the boys got acquainted, us girls chatted and shared dog war stories.  Time passed quickly and soon we needed to leave.  As I gathered up my young ward, Mari hands him the leash and tells him she’ll see him in a few days.  My jaw about hits the floor, this person I met merely hrs before is handing my son a show quality dog to take home.  Surely there is a catch.

However, I found a wiggly Aussie in the back of my mom mobile as we headed home.  The next few days were full of adjustment and bonding with his boy.  Soon it was time to return to Mari’s with the dog and a full report.  I fully expected to face with the anticipated catch.  However, we pulled up the drive the only thing I was faced with a grinning Mari and her demo show ring set up.

Over the next few months, despite battling her own medical mountains, she trained Wes each week with his new friend, purely out of the goodness of her heart.  While her own battle demanded more of her, she called all her contacts and found him a confirmation and obedience class to participate in.  Even after one of her treatments, she rode out 45minutes with us to make sure this class would  be a positive experience for her two boys.  Each step of the way, whether it be classes, B-matches or just advice she’s been there routing them on.

Calvin has been Wes’s salvation.  No more picking up a sobbing, broken child from school.  He knows he’s got his “furry brother” (his own name for him) who needs him and is always more than willing to wash his face with kisses.  With each trick he teaches Cal, the confidence grows and there is no denying the bond they share.  Cal goes EVERYWHERE Wes is able to take him, even trick or treating.

This past month they went to only their second b-match (Wes has to be 9yrs old to compete in normal juniors) and took their age group and best junior.  It was amazing to see my once horribly awkward boy handle his best friend like a pro.  Upon winning, I hugged them both and told Wes how proud I was of him.  “Mom!!!  It wasn’t just me, Cal was really good…he was competitive today.  We are a team!”

So as my feet are warmed by my new furry son, I have a lot to be thankful for this year.  Mari’s amazing gift of not only Cal, but of friendship to my son has truly changed his life.  It has served me as a reminder of the power of just one person’s actions truly can have.  Of course Calvin himself is a teacher in how the love of an animal can help a little boy blossom.  I swear there is something more behind those sweet brown eyes than just a goofy Aussie; an unconditional friend.   

The Walking Wheatens

There are zombies, zombies everywhere, but not enough brains to eat.  Whether movies like Zombieland or TV shows like The Walking Dead, it appears a supernatural fueled apocalypse is all the rage.  However, in my little slice of suburbia a far more horrifying plague has been unleashed unto the groomer’s of my community.  Forget locusts, natural disasters, zombies or biological war fare…..my world has been overrun with soft coated wheatens and their even more terrifying ignorant owners.

The outbreak started innocently enough.  A client had been happily saddled with two less than stellar quality examples of the breed, both lacking in intelligence and confirmation.  Obviously never truly understanding the “birds and the bees”, a litter of wheatens was born and Pandora’s Box had been flung open.   Armed with their adorable appearance, they soon became the envy of the local car pool/PTA gang of mothers.  Thus, by the time these bearers of the apocalypse were ready to unleash their destruction on the world, EVERY mom just had to bring one home to their family.

Desperately, locked in a “Keeping up the Jones’ “rat race, these wheatens must go to the same groom shop and of course compete as to who would be named the cutest.  Now one of these fluffy little demons was granted an act of mercy and was placed in a home that was able to perform an exorcism.  He’s brushed and combed daily and undergoing training.  His human mother is up for sainthood in my book.  As a sign of her dedication, her baby has managed to retain his deceptive teddy bear appearance.

The rest of the gang has varying degrees of commitment.  By far the worst one, and clinging desperately to their position in the rat race, is owned by a hairdresser and her husband the salon owner.  Only having seen the puppy once after 8months, I knew I might need some holy water.

Ominous signs appeared immediately, as the initial phone call sent up red flags.  “You won’t just shave him, will you?”  Having this not been my first rodeo, I quickly discussed coat condition and that I would have to feel and see the wheaten in question first.  My eyes instantly rolled and I knew this was going to be an epic battle.

Armed for this Armageddon with only my metal comb, my opponent made the first move and I waited patiently.  The husband dropped off the beast, flipping, jumping and causing destruction even with his entrance.  I reached for my weapon and realized the entire chest, front legs and rear were solid pelts.  This wheaten had not seen the healing powers of a comb or brush probably since the first grooming experience 3-4 months prior.  Feeling some sympathy for the husband, I told him I would see what magic I could work, but in all likelihood the chances were slim.  This dog needed be reborn and shaved.

I started the arduous task ahead and instantly the demon began its assault.  Screaming, flipping, gnashing it’s teeth…this was not a candidate for de-matting.  The heavy phone call was placed, although only voice mail could be reached.  After hours of battle, this wheaten was reborn with a #7 and a round teddy bear style head.  I the victor (although after a few pain relievers and muttered prayers/expletives) had to tell mother that he was ready to be fetched.

Although under the impression that the demon had already been conquered, I instantly became aware the true beast was on the other end of the line.  “He’s not short is he?”  “What!!!  I can’t just shave everyone that sits in my chair, because it’s easier!”  “Are you just not skilled enough to manage a real haircut!”  “My husband had tried brushing him for 2hrs prior to dropping him off!”  Oh sweet Jesus I was hot, but by some supernatural force I and my comrade at the shop who had witness the entire battle, did not go nuclear.  “Miss, it is not that I lack the skills, but rather don’t have a suitable canvas and won’t be inhumane.  I don’t sit a 3yr old in your chair that hasn’t had a haircut, with gum and peanut butter in his hair, expecting you to do highlights and a perm.  Your puppy was difficult enough to groom, not with taking the condition of his coat in to consideration.  I can imagine that after already being yanked at for 2hrs, the last thing he wanted to deal with is me.  He has lots of potential, but you need to bring him in for grooming more often and be more committed at home.”  Some utterances of speech were made on her end of the line and the call terminated.

To spite us, she did not arrive for 3hrs later to fetch her “mutilated” pet.  Of course being set out unto the world he once again knocked down everything in his wake.  Still armed with an attitude she proceeded to pay.  One form a plastic declined, another maxed out and so the pattern continued until 5 forms of payment had been rejected.  Instantly, the attitude lightened and a plea to just barter services this time was made.  Luckily, the owner of the shop has hope for humanity (and a teenage daughter needing some highlights), so the debt was settled.  Then a miracle happened; a next appointment was booked and maintenance schedule was set.  This battle against the wheaten apocalypse had been won, yet thanks to the plague of them out in the community and this maintenance schedule I knew it wouldn’t be my last.

Big Busty Bichons

Twas the most wonderful time of the year, hunting season. Thus,my husband was out in the woods pretending he was Grizzly Adams.  My very own trophy buck was wondering around outfitted in head to toe camouflage and smelling proudly of deer pee; all in the hopes of filling the deep freezer with his golden retriever sized deer(in Florida deer are smaller).  Not feeling a deep desire to sit still for hours on end in the mosquito laden brush after a full grooming day, I was more than happy to tend to the critters and children back at the homestead, enjoying the benefits of modern creature comforts.

It was getting late in the evening, almost 9:00pm, which for a party animal such as myself was almost scandalous.  I had put the action figures to bed and it was finally time for some “ME” time before the great white hunter came home.  I grabbed a movie, the laptop and baracaded myself in my office or as my kids call it “Mommy’s Get Out Room!”  Sitting there engrossed by the entertainment on my computer screen, I barely noticed the sound of my husband sulking in empty-handed.

Pouting over his rotten luck, he noticed a light coming from underneath my closed office door.  Pausing for a second, he heard my voice talking aloud.  “That’s how you do it!”  “Amazing”  “Gosh, I wish I could do it that good!” 

Totally absorbed in my video, I jumped up as my office door suddenly flew wide open.  There standing in the doorway was my husband in only what he came into his world wearing.  “I’m home and ready to join you!”  Being married nearly a decade I did what any other wife would do in my place, I busted out laughing.  Miffed, he shot his gaze to my computer screen.  Obviously under the wrong impression, he was horrified at what he saw.

There was Jay Scruggs and Sue Zecco glaring right back at him.  In between the pair sat a gorgeous bichon which they had just demonstrated some amazing technique and scissor work.  I had not been watching some dirty movie, but instead those “darn grooming videos!”  Instantly, he turned back to me, clenching his teeth and muttered “You’re sick Emily, just plain sick!”  Then, tucking his tail between his legs grumbled off to the shower to wash away the ode to deer urine and bug spray.  I guess I truly have a passion for grooming!

 

 

 

The Devil Wears Prada

When perusing the groomer message boards or visiting local shops, I often hear the common utterance “I got into grooming because I like dogs and tolerate people.”  Granted there are days when I feel this way, but until dogs are able to sign checks and book their own appointments, owners will always be a factor.  We all have our share of “high maintenance” clients.  You know the type; view a groomer as hired help, have a thousand demands and don’t understand the concept of gratuity.  Ms Daisy and I have our fair share, since mobile tends to be a hot bed for the wealthy and trying.  I still remember fondly my first encounter, with one such client, who learned a valuable lesson.

Open appointments were few and far between.  It was the season of amore (February) and nothing says love like a clean and cute puppy.  My cell phone had been ringing off the hook with new and regular clients, all clamoring to get their babies in before the big day.  My guard was lowered when I reached to answer yet another call.  I expected a client practically begging for me to squeeze them in.  Recognizing the area code as a very high end area of town only further fueled my anticipation.  I pressed accept and gave the normal happy greeting.   A young woman, probably in her late twenties to early thirties quickly and rudely retorted.  “My client has two Labradors and requests your services every Friday, in the morning.  Of course, you’re on a trial basis and I’ll require references.  For any reason you’re not what we’re looking for or are unable to suit our schedule needs, we will go somewhere else.”  Taken a little back from this condescending reply to my cheery and welcoming greeting, I visualized me reaching through the phone and teaching this “assistant” some manners and communication skills.  However, I employed my favorite tactic, sweet as sugar but with a little sour bite as well.  There is no harm in telling someone where to shove it just let them think they’re enjoying the ride.  So I inform her that I’d be happy to provide a reference, but if I move my schedule to accommodate their needs that in turn my time should be respected as well.  Any sudden cancellations or changes would result in “inconvenience fee.”  The assistance slightly scoffed, but said she’d see me this Friday and evaluate our services.  The challenge had been issued.

That Friday morn, I found myself in a very familiar neighborhood.  Several of my clients were their neighbors, and secretly wished I was visiting them instead of this challenge.  As I pulled into the drive, I found myself greeted by a tall young woman, the assistant, who identified herself as Lindsey. She was completely decked from head to toe in either Prada or Gucci and perched upon five inch stiletto heels.  To be honest, I wasn’t entirely sure the designer since it obviously didn’t come from a store with the word mart attached to it, but any average joe could recognize it was expensive and overly ostentatious.  Then of course her hair was meticulously styled, make-up freshly powdered and nails enameled in a high gloss red.  Obviously visually analyzing Ms. Daisy and myself, she quickly instructed me to return to my van and would bring the first dog to be serviced.  Not quite sure how to react, much like Pavlov’s dog I did what I was conditioned to and stayed with my territory, the van.

After a few moments, our lovely Lindsey returned.  However, this time it wasn’t so glamorous.  Dragged by a 60lb yellow lab and barley able to avoid a ski trip down the drive, she threw the leash in my direction.  It was a truly beautiful sight.  Dog gathered and into the van, I was just about to close my door when in steps the diva.  Lindsey decided that in order to assess whether I was a competent Labrador bather she must study me in action.  Although, I’m usually not overly pleased when an owner wants to enter the van too, I usually will comply once.  I figure I have nothing to hide, my van is always clean and I carry myself in a professional manner.  However, this particular request was joyfully accepted.  Ms. Lindsey was going to get an education.

As I secured the dog into the tub, I issued a final warning, “you do understand you may get wet or messy.”  No reply was given but a stern look that implied that her mind was set.  Following my normal routine, I proceeded to lather the dog and allow the product to soak in.  Of course in response the pet did the customary shake.  Water and soap flew everywhere and I dared not look back at the Prada princess to witness her reaction.  After marinating for a few minutes, I rinsed the animal.  I gave into an urge and let the hose slip a tad, squirting water in Lindsey’s general direction.  It felt so good and this would only be the beginning. 

The Labrador stepped out of my tub and onto the table, then as a final farewell to the bath shook once more.  I knew Lindsey’s outfit had to be thoroughly saturated and now faced even more moisture and hair.  I couldn’t resist looking back and viewing fruits of my labor.  Although, slightly shaken her face remained stony and focused.  Somewhat disappointed, I fired up the velocity dryer.  A hurricane of aqua and hair filled the compartment.  That once perfectly coiffed do she had adorned was now a soggy, fuzzy mess.  Her expression resembled a deer caught in the high beams of a semi.  I reassured her that the first dog was almost complete.

Nails and ears were the next tasks to be tackled.  Grabbing some ear cleanser and cotton balls I quickly swabbed out the ears and asked if she might be able to throw them in the garbage can since she was directly in front of the receptacle.  Now remember these were Labrador ears, so the used cotton balls were coated in brown, sticky discharge.  I thought she might either pass out or regurgitate, from the look on her face.  Through the layers on delicately placed make-up was a unique shade of green.  Despite her obviously revulsion, the cotton balls made it to the trash bin and my van stayed unharmed.  Just the nails remained.  I trimmed with the nail trimmers and proceeded
to grab my dremmel to smooth the rough edges.  Nail dust flew and unprepared Lindsay had engulfed the majority of it.  Sneezing and covered in fine white powder, she reluctantly returned the dog to the residence. 

After a few moments, the much deflated Lindsey came into view with the second pet.  Being weak I
gave into my urge and asked if she’d like to sit in on this groom as well.  Before I could complete my sentence I firm “No” issued from her hair encrusted lips.  “After seeing all the work you put into the first one, I’ll allow you to work without my presence.”  Quickly she turned around, and scurried back into her civilized world.  My point had been made.      

Grooming is a trade, rather than a profession.  However despite our career not coming with a college degree or prestigious title it’s still a challenging field that requires talent and skill.  With the experience and attention to care that groomers provide for the pet, respect should be offered in return.  For many clients, it’s ignorance that fuels their difficult demands and attitudes.  They simply do not understand what grooming entails and the occupational risks that come with it.  I still groom the two Labradors every Friday morning, rain or shine, but now the belittling tone is absent.  Lindsey must be afraid I’ll invite her back into my cabin of grooming horrors, and swiftly provides the pets and runs for cover.  I’m assuming I’ve been found capable of handing the job or perhaps it’s simply so she won’t have to go through the examination of a new groomer.