A dog with issues and the human pain-in-the-ass

I had to take my dog to the doggy parlor yesterday. He hasn't been for a haircut in four months and since people were stopping me in the street trying to take pictures of my "mini sheep" I knew it was time.

This is him trying to hide from me even when he was a puppy and we had to go to the parlor. He's not a big fan of scissors after watching Edward Scissorhands 400 times with Mommy.

I've been going to the same parlor for the past year now. The previous one I went to left my dog with little customer satisfaction after he had to deal with Mommy holding a teabag on his eye for four hours with five minute intervals after getting yanked by some scissors which ended up bursting a vain. He was not a happy chappy after that episode. Neither was Mommy after the vet's account.

Since then we've moved to The Blunt Scissors Puppy Friendly Parlor or just Designer Paws for short and we've been much happier. The owner even has a chair for me to sit and wait in while I hawk eye them clipping away at my dog-child. Here in Africa we don't abandon our offspring, even if they're hairy with four legs and a dominating personality.

I always have three books in my bag (no wonder it's so heavy, I always thought it was the brick in there, but Tolstoy can be a serious weapon any day of the week) so I make myself as comfortable as possible whilst listening to barking that even gives Rage Against the Machine a run for their money noise wise, when this lady walks in with her Yorkshire Terrier. I love touching dogs because I'm a dog person and thus dogs let me touch them because they love the love I pet them with. But not this Yorkie. Oh no. Nor the owner. Bigger oh no. I could sense from the way they approached the counter they were not what-a-cute-dog-let-me-mush-his-little-face-while-I-make-coo-sounds-people.

The owner turns to me and asks in quite a rude tone:

"Where's the owner?"

Are you blind, woman? Am I wearing a pink flowery apron with gloves and when talking to you, trying to get rid of all the excess dog hair I had just been shedding by spitting it out the side of my mouth like Clint Eastwood chewing tobacco?

No.

But I did know the answer because the owner and I are good friends (dog people flock together, or is it howl-together?) and he always tells me where he's going when he leaves. He could be my parlor-husband in a sense.

"He just had to drop off the dogs from this morning and pick up the ones who have appointments for this afternoon. He'll be back in no time. What a cute dog you have there," I said with a smile anyway because my mother drilled manners into me the hard way: no Dallas unless I gave back the money I took from church in that little sack they send around after service for donations. It was an honest mistake as I thought it was a gift from the congregation because my dad always said "he who gives, shall receive" and I thought it was high time for the receiving-part after months of giving and don't dare judge me about Dallas; JR was my hero when I was seven.

"I phoned Deon (the owner) yesterday and he said he'd be here," she was telling someone who really didn't care, "and the only reason I came today was because my neigbour said he has a great feel for dogs. Like some kind of dog whisperer."

Wrong again, lady. That's Cesar Milan and he lives in M e x i c o. You know that place somewhere abroad? She should really get out more and mingle with dog people, the poor recluse.

I explained again and as a good friend tried to defend the owner as he's only been really good to my dog-kids. He even sows and then puts the little bandana he just made on my Jack Russell and these funny bows in my Maltese's ears. How he gets those bows in without being ripped to pieces by the Furious one, I honestly don't know.

It might say Prince Charming on his jersey, but his middle name is Hitler and this is what he likes to call the Are you looking at me, boay?-stare.

The lady then starts telling me her dog's life story about how he turned into a different animal all together after his teeth got pulled out while not completely sedated. I just thought to myself: I would also be a different person if that were to happen to me; it's a toss up between turning into the Hulk and Dracula, but I guess the Hulk would win as he doesn't actually need his teeth to get even with a dentist sucking at his job.

According to the lady the dog now has an ulcer and coughs up blood whenever stressed.

See, its even trained to say "aaaaahhhhhh" at the snap of the fingers. This dog could be on a toothpaste commercial if it didn't have the whole fobia-thing going on.

Apparently the dog experiences stress whenever the lady isn't around. That's why she wants to stand there with the dog while its being bathed and having the hair cut.

When she saw my dog getting his coat trimmed off by one of the workers, she was upset. Again.

"I thought the owner cuts the dogs' hair. That's what I heard."

I wasn't having a great day and this lady was seriously getting on my nerves. First of all she was interrupting my time with Tolstoy and then when I glanced over at her I thought for a second she was going to suggest I bath and tame that crazy, blood coughing dog's hair.

Just then my parlor-husband returns (right on time, dear) and faces the wrath of the Stressor. I do actually think she might not be the main cause for this dog's anxiety, but she sure is contributing to it because, according to Cesar, dog's need rehabilitation and humans need training for we mess up our dogs with our 'wrong energy.'




If you're not a dog person I probably sound like that boring bitch with the three children talking to a person who's still screwing every guy that has good hair and a car. It's annoying, I know.




My Maltese now resembles the rat in a sugar cane field licking his exposed little balls the whole time and my Jack Russell looks as though she's lost a few pounds as well. I wish I looked that great after a "trim."