I do love to cry. I’ll cry at the
drop of a hat. -Miranda Hart.
-And me.
I do not flatter myself that I am a gracious type of person. I almost always say the wrong thing on any social occasion. I tend to hang around with His Nibs as much as possible, because he’s in the same boat and we rely on each other to deliver a sharp puck in the ribs when one of us takes a wrong turn in a conversation with normal people.
His Nibs and I have three dogs. They have destroyed our house and rule our lives, but we love them dearly. You know the way child free people are often a bit odd about their pets? It’s as if they have more time and energy to give to a pet, and go too far.
I don’t mean we dress them up in little outfits and push them around in prams. We’re odd, not bonkers. But we are so soft on them that they have no manners or training at all.
The smallest one is a Westie. His name is Rory. And I can say this, because they’re not children, and I'm not their mother, but he's my favourite.
I don’t know if any readers have ever owned a West Highland Terrier. They’re described, by www.hillpet.com, as “smart, independent, and a little stubborn…they are tough, determined little dogs…a handful to train. They do not always feel the need for human direction."
Rory absolutely never feels the need for human direction. I don’t think he sees any reason why he should do anything he is told. Nor does he understand why he is expected to eat dog food rather than human food. Even though he’s eating the best dog food money can buy, and we're usually having toast.
He is also very clever. Clever enough to know that if I ask him to behave himself, and he refuses, that I am big and he is small and I can pick him up and stop his boldness. His most effective method of getting his own way is to be affectionate and waggy tailed and follow me around looking delighted to be with me, and I’m an eejit I'll let him do what he likes.
His Nibs usually brings Rory to the groomers because he creates such an almighty fuss. Rory goes so loopy that he has to be sedated. For a haircut. Now in fairness, is that reasonable?
Anyway, because he needs to be sedated, he goes to the grooming salon attached to the vets practice, so a qualified person can administer the necessary drugs for him to have his hair cut and his ears cleaned.
I tend to fall for the dog’s nonsense. He cries and begs to be brought straight home. He barks and whines and generally carries on as if he’s going to be killed and served on a platter. And I always feel absolutely awful, and stupidly offer to stay with him, or to just take him home, or do whatever it is that the dog wants me to do.
And then the groomer has to send me away in disgrace, because the dog is in no danger and is being bold and spoiled, and I’m falling for it.
So His Nibs brings him in. Because he’s a more rational person than me. When Rory starts carrying on, His Nibs just tells him to behave himself and to “man up”. I think His Nibs might think that I'm making the dog into a bit of a diva.
Rory was due to go to the groomer’s on Monday. Due to a series of unfortunate events, His Nibs wasn’t in our house on Monday morning, and it was left to me to escort Rory to his appointment.
As I’ve said, he knows when he’s dealing with an eejit.
He jumped into the car with glee, delighted to be singled out from the others for a jaunt out into the world. He was waggy tailed and happy all the way to town. He even jumped out of the car quite happily.
Not like me. It was Monday morning, and I’d sort of missed His Nibs, and my hormones must have been at me or something, because I’d woken up feeling a bit dramatic, and only got worse.
When we got to the door of the vet’s, Rory suddenly realised where he was going and sat flat on his bottom, refusing to move another inch.
I dragged and hauled him in to the reception area, where he started jumping up at me, and scratching at the leg of my jeans as he does when he wants to be picked up. (Yes. In the same way as children hold their arms out to their mothers when they want to be picked up, my dog puts his front paws on my legs and scratches me until I pick him up and carry him around for a bit.)
When the groomer came out to get him, Rory started to whine and cry. He started reaching his front paws toward me, in a begging way, to be picked up. And when she finally dragged him away, his little claws were dragging along the floor in his effort not to be left behind by me,
As he went through the door, he barked pathetically for my help. From behind the door I could hear him crying. He really was very upset. I was having visions of him being distraught and terrified for the next two hours.
Now, as I’ve said, my hormones must have been playing me up that day. I felt sorry for the dog, but in my heart I knew he was perfectly safe.
I was definitely tired, because in His Nibs’ absence, I was the one awoken at all hours of the morning, when the dogs decided to begin their day. To be completely honest, I may or may not have had a quick bottle of wine to help me nod off on the Sunday night. And it was a Monday morning.
His Nibs wasn’t around, so there was no need for me to make any effort to control or behave myself.
But still, there was no need for me to start crying. Not roaring now, but sort of sniffing and squeezing out a tear, maybe. I felt sorry for Rory, but this was pure self-indulgence and nonsense. I knew that.
But sure, if you can’t indulge yourself on a Monday morning, when can you?
As I made my way to my car, I met a woman outside the vets. She was also in tears. I was unhappy to see that she was holding a teacup Chihuahua in her arms. The dogs eyes were rolling in her head, and she seemed to be struggling to breathe.
Jesus Christ, I thought. Her dog is dying. The poor woman. One of our dogs died a couple of years ago, I knew how sad she must be.
I stopped to make sure the woman was okay. Well I couldn’t just march past her and pretend it wasn’t happening, could I? I was just offering support. She told me the awful tale. Her little dog wasn’t going to make it, all hope was lost. The tears were dropping off this woman’s face as she told me. I was horrified, obviously.
She accepted my condolences graciously.
“And how about you? How’s your dog?"
Jesus Christ Almighty. Has there ever, in the history of the world, been anyone who could such a total mess of a simple errand like dropping the dog in to be groomed? This woman, when she saw my miserable face, obviously thought we were in the same boat. What could I say? Honestly now, what would you do? I could hardly tell this poor woman, whose dog wouldn’t last the day, that I was crying because my dog was having a haircut, could I?
But I certainly couldn’t lie and pretend I was in the same situation as her.
"Oh, ahm, well, he’ll be ok.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s staying her for a while.” This was technically true, but I could feel my face burning with shame at what I was implying.
“I’m sorry. I hope he’ll be ok.”
How kind this woman was, in the height of her sadness about her own dog.
And what a low down scurrilous lying fiend I was, taking her sympathy because the fecking dog was having a fecking haircut.
But can you imagine the look on her face if I’d told her? If I’d said “Oh, he’s grand, he’s only here for a pampering session.” How awkward would that have been? She was waiting for an answer.
“I’m sure he’ll be fine, thanks. They’re not too worried about him.”
Well, they wouldn’t be, would they? I literally ran away from her. I was ashamed and mortified.
When the groomer rang, two hours later, to say that His Majesty had had his wash cut and blow-dry, and his pedicure, and was now refreshed and fragrant and ready for collection, I almost asked her whether the Chihuahua woman was still outside.
Because His Nibs still wasn’t home. What on earth was I going to do if the Chihuahua had rallied, and the woman was still there, and I had to stroll past with a perfectly healthy, freshly groomed dog?
She wasn’t there. But it would have served me right if she had been, and if she’d given me a good belt for myself.
I’m serious this time. I’m never dropping a dog to a groomer again.
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