MR. FLUFFY

Look, ma. No Grinch feet!

Good-bye, Mr. Scruffy.

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 warm autumn sun. He moved from sunspot to sunspot and dozed on and off, no doubt dreaming of a world where there are no groomers -- just world peace and an endless supply of squirrels and Milk Bones.

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.

It’s like this after every trip to the groomer.

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.

Now, THAT'S what a dog should smell like, he seemed to say while raking at the ground, leaves flying, after a particularly satisfying pee.

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.

The end.

Mr. Scruffy

 
 
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.

Exhibit A

Fin feathers -- in which ungroomed leg feathers stiffen and begin to resemble the dorsal fin of a lion fish.

Exhibit B

 











Grinch feet -- the only thing missing is the color green.

Exhibit C

Crazy hair -- aka, Albert Einstein hair.

This situation WILL be corrected. Ben WILL return to his usual sartorial self. And all will be right with the world.

Until Friday.

When it snows.

I'm Ben in Bermtopia. And I disapprove of this message.