Is it just me or has Ben taken on a dangerously serious physical resemblance to Albert Einstein in recent days?
That's what I thought.
It seems, in this last six to eight weeks leading up to Young Bob Flynn's death, we've been neglecting things: The yard, cleaning toilets, returning library books, and yes, the dog.
Now before you start to run, screaming like a school girl, to the phone to call DPS (Dog Protective Services), take a deep breath. Please be assured Ben is getting lots of love, two walks a day and plenty of kibble. Throw in an open invitation to sleep on the bed at night (which he's accepting more and more as temperatures drop) and a bottomless box of Milk Bones, and the dog's got it pretty darn good. However. . . what Ben isn't getting. . . is groomed.
Oh, in a fleeting moment of remorse, some three weeks ago or so, the Wonderfully Patient Spouse took a stab at brushing Ben. The fruits of his labor -- a pile o' fur that half filled our curbside trash can -- should have been a clue, but Ben's grooming appointment got put off (much to his relief) and put off (much to his delight) and put off (Ben: Am I really done with this hell on earth?), until this weekend, when the WPS and I looked him and said, "Ben, simply put, you are a train wreck in fur. Time to go see Little Nikki."
That's his groomer. She's bomb in our books. Maybe not so much in Ben's.
So until 10 a.m. tomorrow, meet Mr. Scruffy, complete with:
Toes hair -- kind of like nose hair, but sprouting from your toes. Equally off-putting, regardless of location.
Fin feathers -- in which ungroomed leg feathers stiffen and begin to resemble the dorsal fin of a lion fish.
Grinch feet -- the only thing missing is the color green.
This situation WILL be corrected. Ben WILL return to his usual sartorial self. And all will be right with the world.
When it snows.
|I'm Ben in Bermtopia. And I disapprove of this message.|