The longer I live, the more I am convinced women are like dogs. Now stop! Don’t jump to masculine conclusions. Here me out on this. I have personal research to prove it.
I have this adopted poodle we’ll call Lucky Dawg because that’s what I named her when she was rescued on a 13 degree night back in February, 2006 – wet, muddy and hungry. The first thing she did was to relieve herself on my antique oriental rug. But she had sad, kind eyes that let me know she needed a lot of love and still had some to give.
I named her Lucky Dawg because she had somehow managed to maneuver through post Mississippi State University basketball, bumper to bumper traffic, to find me – a sucker for anyone lost and lonely.
Not being familiar with the breed of Poodle, I went to Fred’s and purchased a dog grooming kit. The contraption did nothing more than make the hideous noise my dentist makes when he drills on my teeth, eliminated about three hairs, and terrified Lucky.
She continued to grow into a blimp that reminded me of that confection I bought at the county fair when I was twelve years old – only she wasn’t pink. You couldn’t find her head and didn’t know if she was coming or going. Then, I discovered there is a whole occupation called Dog Groomer and they will clean up the mut and tie a cute scarf around her neck for the price of about $35.
Dog grooming has become a line item on my Dave Ramsey budget. This week she began her melancholy tradition of not eating and not hopping up and down when I come in the door. Frankly, I was feeling the same way after being cooped up by 30 days of rain and more rain.
Instinctively, I knew what Lucky Duck needed – she needed a day at the Spa. The last groomer I used was unavailable so I took her to the Vet thinking some teenager wearing a pink sweatshirt and blowing bubbles would clean her up.
Nope. A huge black man walked over and introduced himself. “I’m Eddie, is this Lucky?”
Surely this hunk of masculine persuasion couldn’t handle Lucky Duck. He would probably carve her into a football or something.
Reluctantly I left her with Eddie who she seemed to take to instantly. Two hours later I went to pick her up. As I cooled my heels in the waiting room with three other pet parents, this fabulous creature came waltzing in. I secretly wished she was mine. She sniffed arrogantly and cantered over to me.
“Lucky Duck? Is that YOU?” I didn’t recognize her – nothing about her was familiar. This beautiful creature had snowy white hair and pigtails secured with red bows. Her fingernails matched the bows. She pranced over and jumped up and down like a puppy again.
“Oh my God. Eddie, can I make an appointment with you for next week? No, not for Lucky Duck, for me!”