Not the Groomers

 

I don't cast my coat so the humans have been discussing the need for me to attend the groomers for a cut and blow-dry. It seemed they'd planned an appointment for Monday. 

The day got off to a bad start when I didn't get breakfast. Initially, as both of them were off work, I thought this was down to a mix-up, with each thinking the other had filled my bowl (I empty it so fast this is understandable).

Then, I thought I was being taken for a walk. I didn't complain. At least, not until I was bundled into the back of the car. I still hadn't had my breakfast.

I was driven to Bridge of Weir, the village where the groomers have their shop. We were early so waited outside until it was time. We could have popped into a cafe for a takeaway breakfast but the man didn't think of that. 

A golden Alsatian was on one side of the waiting area sitting behind a clear dividing screen with his human. I greeted the old dog from behind my human concerned over the dog's size and large teeth. I needn't have worried. The Alsatian was in no position to bite me as he had a toothache. 

A woman with a clipboard talked to them both, discussing the procedure. I thought it odd that groomers would do tooth extraction as well as a clean and polish but diversification is often a necessity in today's modern world (as Mr Puggleswoth once expounded from the roof of a children's toy buggy). 

Then it was my turn for the chat. She didn't ask how much shorter I wanted my coat or how I'd like my beard styled. The conversation was about blood tests and ovaries. I couldn't make out the accent of the woman but trusted they knew what they were doing.

I was then led off to a small room. No pre-cut biccy or bowl of munchies. When the staff started the shave my leg down to the skin, I thought they've gone too far. They'd left me with a bald patch. I'd be a laughing stock at doggy daycare. 

Then she produced a syringe. What kind of groomers need to sedate their clients for a trim? Something was off here. When I woke up, I discovered they'd botched everything. I had a scar on my privates and had a lampshade on my head. Suddenly, a couple of treats were not going to appease me. I wanted compensation. 

When the human returned for me, they paid two hundred and seventy pounds (for a haircut - are they mad?) and made another appointment for a week's time. I thought no way am I going back there. Get me out of here Pronto. I don't normally refer to the man as Pronto but I was still woozy from the anaesthetic.

He drove me home. I removed the lampshade in the car. It didn't suit me at all. Their next act of cruelty was to force me to wear an inflatable ruff. It was better than the lampshade in that it allowed me to eat and drink from my bowl but it looked ridiculous. It was just as well they only let me out into the garden. What if we met someone on a street walk? It's not Halloween yet.

To add insult to injury, when I was eventually fed, I vomited up my lunch all over the carpet. All that food going to waste left me highly distressed. I complained bitterly all day and all night from the discomfort of my wound and from my hunger. I made sure the humans suffered along with me. They'd been responsible for my coat getting ruined so I intended to ruin their holiday.

The man was sent to buy me clothes. Something snazzy to cover up the shame of my wound. He came back with a pack of baby grows. It seems in human age, I'm size eighteen to twenty-four months.

I have to say I do look rather dashing in them. I think, once the hair had grown back over my scar, I might investigate a career modelling for doggy glamour magazines. 

No looking down my low-cut top