|Look, ma. No Grinch feet!|
Say hello to your good twin brother Mr. Fluffy.
The much-anticipated trip to Ben’s groomer, Little Nikki, finally occurred Thursday. The Wednesday trip was aborted due to a car accident (hers) and the ensuing mayhem that accompanies such adventures.
Ben enjoyed his day of reprieve, lolling the backyard, savoring our last day of
Thursday, of course, was another matter.
He was not happy with either of us when he got home from Little Nikki's. He curled up on his bed and moped all evening, regularly firing off withering Sheepdog Stink-eyes in our general direction.
|I hate smelling like patchouli.|
We're (mostly) used to it by now.
Friday morning, he was bit more chipper. Probably because he had 40 gallons of pee stored up in his groomer-traumatized bladder. I base this observation on the vast quantity of creative ways he marked things on our walk. The dog is a freakin' acrobat.
Ben dawdled everywhere, loping up and down sidewalks, disappearing into people's backyards despite my firm admonishments. And he took interminable amounts of time perusing the leafy ochre pyramids that occupy almost every lawn in my neighborhood. He walked through all of them, trying, I think, to rub off the light scent of doggie shampoo and replace it with the herbaceous perfume of wet leaves.
I'm going to go out on a limb and say things are back to normal today. We've got eye contact, stink-eyes replaced with Ben's heart-piercing eternally hopeful, faintly worried you're-not-going-to-do-anything-really-stupid-today-are-you? gaze.
And we're all litter mates again. Ben's stopped moving to the very far corner of the bed, but instead is happy to curl up next to us for a long winter's nap.
It's good to have Mr. Fluffy back.