One of my favorite people in the world has got to be the groomer. Yes, the groomer.
Not only does she take my hairy-beast-of-a-dog, shave her, wash her, brush her, and make her smell so good you could eat her up, she also gets same hairy beast out of my house for THREE WHOLE HOURS!
Some days, I would pay her just to take the dog off my hands for a little while—no washing involved.
See, my dog loves me. She REALLY loves me. She follows me around the house all day, just waiting for some affection from me. (Well, O.K., what she’s really waiting for is for me to put on my running shoes and take her for a walk, but still. . . .)
All the doggie togetherness just gets to me sometimes.
So yesterday was a good day, if only because Thunder was going to the groomer. I would have three hours to sweep the kitchen floor of all that hair (oh, how I hate the hair!); three hours of unimpeded walking around my house without tripping over the dog; three hours of answering the door without embarrassing myself or my guests by having my dog “eagerly” greet them. Ahhhh, three Thunder-less hours!
There’s only one problem with taking Thunder to the groomer—she hates the car. You know how you see these dogs riding in cars with their heads sticking out the window, face to the wind, ears pinned back, actual smiles on their faces as if they are having the time of their lives?
That’s not my dog.
She actually spends the time whining, crying, moaning, hopping from seat to seat like a nervous pit bull. It’s a pain to get her to the groomer because by the time we get there she’s crying so much and shaking so much that I just feel terrible for her.
And it’s only a 10 minute drive!
So I usually get one of the girls to help me keep her calm in the car and to help me keep my eyes on the road. Yes, it takes at least two people to get one crazy dog to the groomer.
Yesterday, when it was time to pick up our freshly washed, shaved, brushed non-hairy beast, Maggie came with me. She’s more like the head-out-the-window-face-to-the-wind-ears-pinned-back-smiling-all-the-while kind of image than our puppy is. This kid is just happy.
As we were driving along, enjoying a bea-u-ti-ful summer day (it was one of those days in Chicago that we wait for all year—perfect blue sky, low humidity, just lovely), Maggie took a deep breath and let out a big, “Ahhhhhhhhh.”
“What’s that for?” I asked.
“I’m on the perfect line of happy,” she said.
I let out a little laugh and asked, “What’s that mean?”
“Well, I’m not like ‘WAAH’ joyous, and I’m not sad. I’m just on the perfect line of happy.”
I love that! What a wonderful description of contentedness. The perfect line of happy.
Now, if I could just remember that when the snow is falling and the wind chill is way below zero. And my big, loveable, hairy beast is shedding like mad and lying in my way.