Arthur got a haircut on Wednesday. We went to see Bronwyn at Oona’s. She’s awesome. For some reason, I’m not exactly sure why, dog grooming usually takes about 3 hours. I think that maybe they stagger the dogs or something. Wash one, then wash the other, then trim one, then trim the other, but every other place I’ve ever taken him takes 3 hours. My dog hates the groomer. He hates the bath. I’ve tried everything I can think of, but he just doesn’t like to be wet.
So Bronwyn gets his haircuts done in 45 minutes. I’m not sure if this is out of thoughtfulness for my dog, or out of self-preservation. When I go back in to pick him up all the girls are wearing earmuff looking headphones, the kind you see the airport guys wearing on the tarmac. It’s because my dog is yelping his high-pitched, annoying bark. He’s yelling, “Mom, come get me! I know you can hear me! Do you know what they’re DOING to me in here? MOM!”
The funny thing is, I’ve heard that most dogs act all embarrassed when they get back from the groomers, and hide behind furniture for a few days. Not my dog. Once he realizes that he doesn’t have to stay at the groomers and be tortured, everything is right in the world. He struts around like he’s God’s gift to female westies. All you have to do is tell him that he looks “handsome.” He’s like, “Um, yeah, I know.”
|After: Sir Arthur|
|Before: Hairy McShaggerson|