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The inner workings of the mind of Malcolm, distinguished canine.
Friday, November 21, 2003
Log 006:
It has been roughly a week since I was subjected to a visit to the groomers. While I was shrewdly disappointed by the lack of professionalism by the staff-- the groomer was, after all, wearing a polyester/nylon blend smock with snaps up the front, for goodness' sake-- I was pleasantly surprised by the sensation of being given a bath by one experienced in the nuances of canine bathing. Allow me to explain.
First, I was shepherded into a small metal cage, which caused me to worry that I would be imprisoned there for the remainder of the day. This was, of course, a day that I had much on my schedule in the way of engineering and repairs on the hovercraft engine; but yet again, Lisa decided to load me into the car without a moment's notice and take me to the store. She had mentioned something about purchasing me a new brush, as the old one (which was a bright pink color that I despised and saw as emasculating) was lost. Since I also knew that I could accompany her to her office after the trip to the store, I went along willingly. After all, I have observed much from my small blue bed on the floor behind her desk. I have full view of her computer monitor and listen to her conversations. While I am unsure as to how the subtle points of bus manufacturing and repair will ever come of use, I see no harm in absorbing the information.
But I digress. At the store, which is a large warehouse of "squeaky" toys and flavored treats that appeal to the lowest denominator, we quickly identified a brush that we both thought would work well. Lisa, to her credit, chose one that was priced on the higher end of the retail spectrum, so I knew quality was the issue of choice, not price. As we perused the selection, the groomer approached in her cheap smock and peering down at me with her lazy eye. I was alarmed when I heard them discussing "baths" and "trimming." For up until this point, I had forgotten that I was not entirely pristine. That morning, I had spotted a small gecko approaching the decorative carved pumpkin that was slowly rotting in the sun in the yard, following a Halloween gathering the weekend earlier. I admit to having a weakness for the wee lizards, and usually entice them to join me for some companionship for a few hours before the people and Callie come crashing into my vision yet again and the lizards hurriedly depart.
I had followed this particular gecko with the interest of a dog that has risen with the sun and was feeling energetic and alive in the crisp morning air. The little fellow retreated into the folds of the highly-fragrant pumpkin, so I naturally followed him. However, my cranium would not fit inside the whole pumpkin, but I did manage to get a substantial look around the interior of the decomposing gourd. It was fascinating. The chemical breakdown had created a sulfuric gas, which in turn was reacting with the heat from the sun to hasten the decomposition process. I mentally took notes on the various stages of breakdown. When I emerged from the pumpkin's shell, I realized I had quite a bit of refuse on my face and shoulders. I wore it with pride; the pride of an explorer; an intellectual with a panache for doing things hands-on. Or paws-on, in this case.
Lisa was taken aback by the odor, however, and deemed it was time for a "professional groomer" to take over the bathing chores. And that was how I ended up being soaked in a marvelously warm bath and massaged gently with a masculine-scented liquid soap and conditioning treatment.
My ears were attended to, and my coat carefully trimmed and shaped. Afterwards, I was placed inside a warm cage yet again-- which humiliated me at first, but I soon softened when I realized that warm air was being pumped into the cage to dry my fur to a fluffy, voluminous finish. After I was dried, the pedestrian groomer tied a green "bandana" around my neck, which I resented at first because I assumed it made me look "gay." But when I spotted my reflection in the glass windows, I realized I now resembled a young, robust John Wayne, albeit one with white fur and a curled tail. I decided it did not look all that awful, and I submitted to the attentions of the groomer.
When Lisa arrived to retrieve me within the hour, she was quite pleased with my appearance. I longed to tell her that she needed to attend a grooming academy to learn the proper methods of meeting my hygiene needs, as her methods of washing me-- dousing me with the crude sprayer in the kitchen sink and soaping me up with a horrendous pina colada scented shampoo-- need extensive improvement. Perhaps when I get the hydraulic power gloves working, I can type her a memo.
Until next time,
Malcolm
It has been roughly a week since I was subjected to a visit to the groomers. While I was shrewdly disappointed by the lack of professionalism by the staff-- the groomer was, after all, wearing a polyester/nylon blend smock with snaps up the front, for goodness' sake-- I was pleasantly surprised by the sensation of being given a bath by one experienced in the nuances of canine bathing. Allow me to explain.
First, I was shepherded into a small metal cage, which caused me to worry that I would be imprisoned there for the remainder of the day. This was, of course, a day that I had much on my schedule in the way of engineering and repairs on the hovercraft engine; but yet again, Lisa decided to load me into the car without a moment's notice and take me to the store. She had mentioned something about purchasing me a new brush, as the old one (which was a bright pink color that I despised and saw as emasculating) was lost. Since I also knew that I could accompany her to her office after the trip to the store, I went along willingly. After all, I have observed much from my small blue bed on the floor behind her desk. I have full view of her computer monitor and listen to her conversations. While I am unsure as to how the subtle points of bus manufacturing and repair will ever come of use, I see no harm in absorbing the information.
But I digress. At the store, which is a large warehouse of "squeaky" toys and flavored treats that appeal to the lowest denominator, we quickly identified a brush that we both thought would work well. Lisa, to her credit, chose one that was priced on the higher end of the retail spectrum, so I knew quality was the issue of choice, not price. As we perused the selection, the groomer approached in her cheap smock and peering down at me with her lazy eye. I was alarmed when I heard them discussing "baths" and "trimming." For up until this point, I had forgotten that I was not entirely pristine. That morning, I had spotted a small gecko approaching the decorative carved pumpkin that was slowly rotting in the sun in the yard, following a Halloween gathering the weekend earlier. I admit to having a weakness for the wee lizards, and usually entice them to join me for some companionship for a few hours before the people and Callie come crashing into my vision yet again and the lizards hurriedly depart.
I had followed this particular gecko with the interest of a dog that has risen with the sun and was feeling energetic and alive in the crisp morning air. The little fellow retreated into the folds of the highly-fragrant pumpkin, so I naturally followed him. However, my cranium would not fit inside the whole pumpkin, but I did manage to get a substantial look around the interior of the decomposing gourd. It was fascinating. The chemical breakdown had created a sulfuric gas, which in turn was reacting with the heat from the sun to hasten the decomposition process. I mentally took notes on the various stages of breakdown. When I emerged from the pumpkin's shell, I realized I had quite a bit of refuse on my face and shoulders. I wore it with pride; the pride of an explorer; an intellectual with a panache for doing things hands-on. Or paws-on, in this case.
Lisa was taken aback by the odor, however, and deemed it was time for a "professional groomer" to take over the bathing chores. And that was how I ended up being soaked in a marvelously warm bath and massaged gently with a masculine-scented liquid soap and conditioning treatment.
My ears were attended to, and my coat carefully trimmed and shaped. Afterwards, I was placed inside a warm cage yet again-- which humiliated me at first, but I soon softened when I realized that warm air was being pumped into the cage to dry my fur to a fluffy, voluminous finish. After I was dried, the pedestrian groomer tied a green "bandana" around my neck, which I resented at first because I assumed it made me look "gay." But when I spotted my reflection in the glass windows, I realized I now resembled a young, robust John Wayne, albeit one with white fur and a curled tail. I decided it did not look all that awful, and I submitted to the attentions of the groomer.
When Lisa arrived to retrieve me within the hour, she was quite pleased with my appearance. I longed to tell her that she needed to attend a grooming academy to learn the proper methods of meeting my hygiene needs, as her methods of washing me-- dousing me with the crude sprayer in the kitchen sink and soaping me up with a horrendous pina colada scented shampoo-- need extensive improvement. Perhaps when I get the hydraulic power gloves working, I can type her a memo.
Until next time,
Malcolm
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