A few weeks ago, our first attempt with a Florida dog groomer was not an encouraging experience. It was off-putting enough to find hair on the floor, dogs barking, and the owner making conversation as she trimmed a dog. And the girl checking us in kept referring to Mamie cloyingly as “Baby.”
“When was Baby’s last trim?” “Do you have Baby’s shot record?”
The final straw was our dog came home with tufts of hair sticking out in odd places as though the trimmer had been simultaneously watching television or perhaps texting.
Saturday morning we asked Mamie if she’d like to go in the car. She bounced and smiled, no idea of what we had in store.
The new groomer we’ve found is rated first in the city, with prices to match. I only wish they took people.
Soft classical music plays, the attendant stays with the dog through the entire visit, and there’s not a cage in sight.
We were led to a consultation room, with seating for all and visual aids aplenty.
We discussed crucial matters like hair length, how to avoid that Our-Gang-Alfalfa look on top of her head, and the tail: to trim or not to trim.
Then, heartless people that we are, we abandoned Mamie and went out for breakfast.
When we picked her up she looked and smelled so fabulous it seemed a waste not to parade her downtown, but instead we took her home to rest up for the next adventure we had planned for her later in the day.
We’d been to the bike shop a few days before to buy a basket. Since I’m still working on my cycling confidence, it was to go on My Guy’s bike.
The other reason was the freight we planned to carry. Freight that needed to have Mom in her sights at all time.
After a tentative experiment walking her and the bike slowly around (the key being a constant supply of dog treats) we got brave and did a slow pedal around the complex. Major success.