Spa Day

 Ahh, spa day.  For the dog!

Lucy went to the groomer this weekend. Lucy HATES going to the groomer. I don't know how I telegraph that we are going to the groomer when we get in the car, but she knows. We never say the G word. We never say the groomer's name. She rides in the car a lot of times without going to the groomer. 

Somehow she always knows.

Once in the car and out of the complex, the shaking starts. We ignore it and talk normally. Next comes the drooling, we pretend it's not happening. The final stage adds moaning to the other two. It's disturbing but ridiculously absurd as well. 

I try to empathize with her. I remember getting my hair brushed by my mother as a kid and thinking there was no reason to pull that hard. I'm sure I had some version of mats in my hair over the summer with all the swimming and sweating. I remember my younger brother screaming about getting his ears wet and cleaned as a baby. He eventually had to get tubes in his ears and the screams sounded like he was in a horror movie. 

The anal glands? I got nothing. But I can't imagine I would like anyone putting their fingers in there and squeezing. 

All that being said, she PREENS when I pick her up. She swishes and wags and .... runs to the door. When she sees me from the half door where the grooming magic takes place, she turns toward the other dogs still being groomed (tortured?) and woofs softly as if to say, "Nyah nyah, I'm going home!"

All the neighbors she sees after being groomed are amazed by how good she looks.

"Lucy, you look so beautiful!"

"Oh Lucy! You're so soft!"

"Lucy, you feel so good! I love to pet you after you've been groomed."

"Your tail! It's so fluffy! You could be in the Westminster! You would win for sure!"

Lucy adores the attention. The price of beauty?