Don't Fuck With The Toys of the Dragonkin

And Now For Something Completely Different!

How people perceive grooming: As with any animal-related job, people seem to think pet grooming involves rolling around on the floor being kissed by dozens of puppies, happy dogs engulfed in suds, and preened pets getting prissed on the salon tables. Everyone loves their job because with a description like that, who wouldn’t?

What grooming is really like: Simply put, there is blood. Every day.

A typical client:

Polly Prissypants walks into the salon and asks about our services.

“How much to groom my dog?”

“What breed?”

“10 lbs.”

“No, what breed?”

“Teacup.”

“...”

After an exchange a preschooler should be able to understand, we’ve determined Miss Pants’s dog is a Yorkie. Missy Prissypants is 6 months old and has never been groomed. Or seen a brush.

“Do you brush her at home?”

“Oh she got out over the weekend and she came back looking like this.”

“...”

Your groomer knows when you’re lying. In order to look like she does, Missy would have had the greatest weekend of her life.

Now to determine the type of cut.

 “I’d like her to look like this photo.”

“She’s matted to the skin; I can try and salvage-“

“PHOTO”

Polly turns to leave.

“Enjoy your spa day, my precious little butt dumpling!”

Humans, for the most part, enjoy getting cleaned and pampered and consider a real spa day to be a treat. Dogs think completely different. In the grooming salon there are tons of new sounds, smells, people, and objects to overwhelm and terrify them. Their stink, their comfort zone, is being completely removed and replaced by flowery, fruity stinks that they do not enjoy. They will do anything they can to get away.

The biggest annoyance in the salon: the windows. People allow their kids to pound their little fists on the glass, or even knock on it themselves to get the cute little poochie on the other side to look at them.

Some people also take the opportunity to stand at the end of a groomer’s table and watch for an uncomfortable amount of time because they feel they’re “protecting” the dog by watching the groomer like a hawk and running to management at the slightest struggle.

Unless fists are violently connecting with canine faces, don’t do this. Dogs need to be trained in the salon, too. Making any dog freak out on the table when clippers or sharp shears are involved is always a bad idea. Chances are the groomer knows what she’s doing, so you can take a glance and walk away relaxed.

Be this person: “Hi, I’m dropping Missy off. Here’s a photo of what I’d like her to look like.”

“She’s matted to the skin; I’ll probably have to shave her down.”

“Oh, ok, I trust your judgement! You went to school after all. I’ll make sure to purchase a brush and keep her de-matted between groomings from now on.”

“Great! And in a few months we’ll be able to get a Yorkie pattern started on her as her hair grows out!”

Sadface

There was no canine-toddler interaction this weekend since the toddler came down with a fever the night before he was supposed to come visit. So I'll be posting a blog about my job that I've been formulating for a few months. Enjoy!

Boooorn to be Wiiiiiiiild

The toon boys are off on a car ride! The Real Life boys are gearing up for two of their "aunts" and a three-year-old human "cousin" to come visit for a few days. I'm sure the canine-toddler interaction will be worth at least one comic next week.

Oh yeah, "next week." I'm not gonna have time to update til next week since I'm spending all day in the car tomorrow (will put up something like this ^ in Tanked! as well) and the visitors are staying til Monday. Tuesday I'll be in the car all day again.

DON'T MISS ME TOO MUCH HURR HURR

The Many Hairstyles of Jack

For John!

Easy update is easy for that fresh, I-have-to-clean-my-entire-house feeling!

A Dog Can Dream

Ares Hates Philadelphia

Ares hates Philadelphia.

He’s only been there twice. The first visit was only a brief rest stop at my parents’ house during an almost twenty-four hour road trip, but the second visit determined this place was not worth visiting ever again.

The second time time he came with me to see my parents was when he was barely a year old. I had planned on boarding him at a kennel for the few days I was going to be home, since my mom had two dogs and they were questionable in how they would take to a newcomer. By the time I got to the kennel, though, it had closed for the night and no one would answer the phone. Stuck, I called my friend Megan and asked if she would mind dog-sitting until the kennel opened in the morning.

When we got to Megan’s house, she shut her Saint Bernard Maggie in an upstairs bedroom so Ares could check out the house. While we talked, Maggie barked and dug at the door, while Ares kept nervously looking at the staircase.

With a loud crack, Maggie finally worked the bedroom door open and galloped down the stairs, launching straight for Ares. Absolutely horrified that a dog this huge existed, Ares tried to cram himself under a table but ended up being pinned under a heavy, furry butt.

We decided this might not work out.

At my parents’ house, the resident dogs were closed inside while Ares had the run of the backyard to calm down. After half an hour or so my mom let them outside to check each other out. She was worried about the chow’s behavior, but Bear just ignored Ares. Instead Harley, the Australian shepherd, surprised us all by tackling Ares and holding him down. I had to pick his pathetic self up and carry him away. The next day I called the kennel, learned it was full, and so was forced to set up his things in my bedroom, where he spent the next four days cowering.

He never got over his fear of other dogs.

As if canine-induced trauma wasn’t enough, before we returned to Erie we stopped at Megan’s house to chat. Ares was kept in the backseat of the car by his folded kennel blocking access between the front seats. I had tied both sides to the seats with twine so it wouldn’t move while driving.

Ares stayed in the car while we stood outside of it talking with Megan.

Suddenly Ares began screaming and yowling and panicking in the car. We threw open the door to find Ares flopped over into the passenger seat, flailing and pissing everywhere. He failed to clear the crate and got his hind foot stuck between the metal folds.

Thinking he broke his foot, I pulled him out of the car. The instant he hit the ground he ran up to Megan and danced around her for attention like nothing happened. The damage in the car was an annoyance – the fabric seats were soaked in urine, the car stank like panic, and Ares had gnawed a chunk out of the gear shift, all in the ten seconds he spent barely caught by his foot.

After that, I bought him a harness that straps him in by the seatbelt, but he nearly chewed through the entire seatbelt strap before I caught him doing it. Ares hasn’t been back to visit my parents in nearly three years which is just fine by everyone involved.