From Scruffy to Fluffy

It comes around every five weeks, and I dread it. Libby, our little Yorkshire terrier, needs the “beauty parlor,” also known as the groomer—in a big way. I know there’ll be drama, spectacle, and pathos. And that’s just from me. This is never an easy excursion for seven challenging reasons.

The week before– Since her last shampooing, Libby now looks like the canine version of a six-year-old kid, after spending all day at the playground. Her coat is an oily mess with tiny twigs embedded in her fur. I try and wash her but it’s never the same as a professional grooming. Libby’s a small, dainty thing but she’s also a tomboy. She loves rolling in dirt, sticks, and mud—the grosser the better. Sometimes she comes home looking like the last dog standing on “Survivor.”

Driving to the groomer – Libby loves the word for automobile and goes crazy when she hears my invitation, “You want to ride in the CAR?” She zooms around the house in joyous anticipation. The problem arises, however, when we’re on the way to the groomer. That’s when Libby remembers she hates the car. As she starts recognizing landmarks, the high-pitched whining begins: Take me out of here! Are we going to THAT PLACE? My ears start to ache.

Her pre-entrance – Before we enter, Libby needs to use the little green lawn patch by the groomer’s door. That’s fine. After picking up after her, I go to throw it away in a nearby garbage container that’s a few feet from the door, but in the opposite direction. Libby is overjoyed, convinced we’re going home already. Mom just brought me here to use the ladies’ room and that’s it! But as we turn and head back for that entrance, the whining resumes. Poor Libby.

The official entrance– Viola is the lovely lady who runs the shop. She’s an energetic, middle-aged woman from Poland and is always busy with her large, small, and medium-sized clientele. As I check-in with her at the front desk, I keep Libby on a nearby chair. Otherwise, she’ll try and “mark” her territory on Viola’s floor. Then comes the moment. Viola scoops her up and says, “You come with me, Lee-BEE.” I’ve learned not to look back. It feels too much like dropping my kids off at pre-school.

 My Guilt – I come home and must admit—I’m in heaven. I can enjoy my lunch in peace. Libby isn’t begging for my food. There’s no barking when the Amazon truck pulls up. I’m not being pulled and cajoled through the next five steps in our daily agenda. I can relax. Yet, after an hour or two, something strange happens. I start to miss that fluffy little body and big brown eyes. No one in the four-legged world loves me like Libby. I begin waiting for that phone to ring.

The Pick-up – Entering the groomers quietly is impossible. A little buzzer goes off when the door opens and every dog in the place starts barking hysterically, hoping their Mommy has arrived. I spot Libby waiting in a small crate stacked on top of bigger ones at the back of the shop. I wave and she goes crazy, bopping up and down, yipping, circling, eager to be released. Once out of the cage, she rushes to me, and her leash and harness are put back on. It’s about time, I can almost hear her saying.

The ride home – As loud as Libby is on the way to the groomer, now she’s quiet as a mouse. I compliment her on how glamorous and well-coifed she looks, especially with her colorful bandana. This one is orange for fall. At home, the first thing Libby does is dash into my husband Randy’s office and pirouettes for him, as if she’s walking down a runway. She also shows off for my mom who lives with us. Once she’s had enough ooh’s and aaah’s, she returns to my lap. I pat her soft, clean fur and am proud, not only of Libby, but of myself.

Somehow, we both survived another grooming appointment. I can relax for the next five weeks.

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