Dog-interrupted.

Or, My Newfound Respect for Dog Groomers
by Stephanie Gresham

It happened the other day. I'm not sure which one, because I am usually unaware of these sorts of things until they jump up and smack me in the face. Let's say I found out about it on Thursday because I like that Thursday is represented with an R on tiny calendars.
We are broke. As in, property taxes went through the roof and I still haven't had a bite on Careerbuilder.com. As in, my husband and in-laws got a giggle out of the idea that I may need to mow George-the neighbor's lawn for some extra cash while he's out truckin' this month. As in, yeah and why don't I do it in a bikini and set out a tip-jar on the curb while I'm at it?

Our household is now undergoing a major budget overhaul these days, which means I no longer get the luxury of having my own cell phone. (Apparently, it's just not a necessity to make phone calls these days when driving in the car or waiting in line at the market.) ((I am saying market instead of grocery store lately. Starting now.))

One way in which I've decided we can cut costs is by grooming the ol'dog ourselves. Ourselves really means myself, since I don't have a day-job. A fact that slipped my mind when I made the suggestion.

Today I drank coffee and then I took on the seemingly simple task of shaving off the excess fuzz from our ol'dog, Chope.

Because I'm an astoundingly intelligent and crafty gal, used the garden tub in the master bathroom for the job. The object was to contain the hair until the shaving was finished so it would be easier to trash and then wash the dumb dog. What I didn't expect was that my dog was carrying a whole other dog's worth of hair on herself. I had two for one this entire time and just wasn't aware of it. Now, if you don't have your own Chope, and I'm fairly confident you don't, you aren't aware of the flexibility and super maneuvering capacity that a Chope of age 77+ maintains in their golden dog-years.

There may be hair on the ceiling.

Side note: If you're one of my family members or if you were around the campus of Harvard at all during the graduation of the Business School during the summer of 2007, you know that my clipper expertise is not umm... marvellous. Please don't ask my husband. I'm pretty sure he's still mad about the back of his head looking, well, ridiculous that summer.

Any. Way.

Five minutes into the haircut and I had a new respect for professional dog groomers.
Twenty minutes into it, my hand was numb.
Forty minutes and Chope waded ankle-deep* in salt & pepper fur while my face and arms itched uncontrollably.
One hour and ten minutes later she was washed, dried, and looked slightly more fashionable than the ugliest pair of sneakers I own. If bald patches alternating with poofy gray fountains of hair is haute couture, she's in.

Chope has two modes. Sleeping and being awake while laying down at the same time. There's not a whole lot of standing, sitting, or walking on her afternoon agenda. And there's absolutely no running. Shaving her back was easier and shaving her stomach was impossible. Her elbows are poofy and I couldn't get the right angle near her itchy spots. Those places are bald now. Easier to itch, I told her. She licked the air in front of her nose and I'm just happy we don't have any mirrors hanging down low. The last thing I need is an ancient dog with self-image issues moping around my house.

Two out of three is bad enough.

Saving money is hard work. Where's my bikini?

stepping on top of the dog-

that’s not good taking care, I tell them
you yelling at me that way.

and the laughs they do make me madder
I huff and puff my chest up
arms crossed tightly

if I wouldn’t get into trouble for slamming my door
I would do it,
I would do it.

nobody even LIKES me!
I say it loud
the door won’t keep in my feelings.
I want them to know my heart hurts
my bones don’t keep out invisible monster-words.

I stomp a pile of crayons on the floor
then gather them up into their box
so nobody sees the broken pieces.

quietly I sit criss-cross
i’m sorry.
someone will come soon.
when they scoop me up and bring a tissue,
Now that
is good taking care.

I was on the back porch yesterday trying my best to stay out of the way of the man installing our new alarm system. The bells and whistles put my pets in a panic. So. To. Speak. The prickly straw of the hand-me-down chair I parked my rear upon poked inside me a memory of childhood.
I thought about the back door parlors of my past and how, for a Florida-born gal, they became the most important room in the house.
Particularly, the house on Third Street. It's three thousand square feet were sprawling, but the claim to fame was not in it's interior. The Third Street house boasted a large cement slab painted teal and was walled-in up to the waist on three sides with just a narrow void for escaping into the back yard. It's where my birthday party pinatas we're brutally ambushed by squealing friends whose names I can't remember and where my mother and step father retreated nightly to drink beers from cans and call each other names.
All the marathon Saturday morning garage-sale gems ended up here. A chalkboard fit for a schoolteacher's child, a tiny desk for official kid-business, and a pair of white high-top roller-skates with red wheels and Strawberry Shortcake posing preciously on the side came to mind. The chalkboard was green. Or black. I wish I could remember.
Across the deep-smelling canal was "the field". It's purpose was, of course, to grow weeds. And to be the final resting place for a summer's worth of white sand. A gift from my step-dad. A kid's dream in the shape of a mountain. A month's worth of ringworm.
In adulthood I have not grown graceful, but childhood summers were scab-filled and fantastic. Tiny badges of fearless adventure. Each bicycle wreck was a triumph, although a deluge of tears were it's right of passage. And that teal slab and it's roof were a haven to the bumped-heads and bruised shins of myself and my cohorts. A pristine Popcicle palace.
On my present porch I had hopes for my family. My dogs grinned sopping smiles on the shady concrete slab. I imagined it will live up to the the place that resonates in my own memories. It's few potted plants and the rusty barbecue grill may not be what my dreams are made of, but the future is a sweaty surprise. The breezes out here, temporary and frequent, are the beginning of a timeless love-affair with summer. I just know it.

Sometimes I'm Sharice

This is what I dreamed about when I dreamed about cool stuff:

"Riding along in my golf cart I pass a giant truck full of pink cases. They're the secret agent type..pink metallic metal, lots of locks, even Top Secret written on the outside. They're all different sizes.
Hmmm...I'm thinking I'd love to have what ever is in them, so I take a look around. Nobody's in sight. I casually putt on by in my golf-cart (no pun intended), reach my arm out, swipe the biggest one on the top. Putting the pedal to the metal I skid away.
What's this? Oh no! The truck is right on my tail and there are angry foreign men hanging out of the cab toting large automatic weapons! I'm doomed.
Of course, it doesn't take long for them to catch up to me in my cart...I'm apprehended in every sense of the word.
When they take the pink case back and throw it in their truck...it's FBI locks are jarred open to reveal the secret contents!
Aha! It's a Barbie prototype. This doll's amazing! I can't remember what makes her so spectacular...but she was truly fantastic judging by the look on my face.
I'm still doomed. I'm lead to a dark, damp room somewhere far away from dream Barbie. The armed men are speaking Johillawoost (that's their language) and I can only pick up on a few words here and there.
"uncovered secret", "how's my hair", "let's shoot her" and "how do you like your Barbie stealer..Fried or boiled?"
AAAAK!
They lead me down hallways until we come to an opening in the concrete wall. They point inside with their guns and say, "fosh". (Johillawoost for get in there and suffer you Barbie-stealing wench.)
I poke my head in the little opening and look around. Not so bad. It doesn't look like a "pit". Three gray, concrete walls. I look back before stepping inside to see the men eating bananas and laughing with their chewed food exposed.
"Ick," i say. They shove me inside.
I sit. Within seconds I realize why this place was dubbed "the pit" by the Barbie holders. The opening to the tiny room has vanished...soundlessly, I am enclosed by an escapeless room. A pit. There are four walls now, a floor and a ceiling. I'm in a cement box.
I close my eyes and try to sleep. I keep thinking, "If you ever get out of here, Sharice, don't ever steal another pink metallic Top Secret box."
I must've fallen asleep...when I woke up I was in a bed, and not in a box at all. I still wished I had the fantasmic Barbie, though. Just so I could brush it's hair."

Almost Five: A manual

When you're almost five you quite often forget you're not the boss. Sometimes your emotions win the battle against reason and logic and you end up crying over spilled milk. Literally.
When you're almost five you more than likely despise anything related to hair care. Including but not limited to: washing, conditioning, combing, brushing, drying, styling and even touching. Most mornings you're satisfied going to school looking like a mopsy-head. With a dangling barrette.
Almost-five-year-olds are never afraid to wear white shoes after Labor day or black tights in the summer. Whatever they put together is in almost-five-year-old-fashion. Period. And if you don't agree, they cry.
If you're not big on cooking, then you really ought to get yourself an almost-five-year-old. They can live on peanut butter sandwiches with strawberry jelly, but not apricot jam. And if you like the crusts, you're in luck. Corn is a five-year-old's favorite vegetable, but they want it on the cob if you serve it in a bowl and they need you to scrape it into a bowl if you serve it on the cob. They're just that way.
Being almost five means that you're big enough to pour water into your own cup, but not big enough to get your own cup down from the cabinet in the kitchen.
So, if you're almost five...get used to being thirsty.
It also means that you sometimes forget to put on shorts or pants under your hula skirt (or tutu) and you walk around with your Dora underpants showing. No big deal, unless there are boys around. Then...pretty big deal.
Riding in a car is the hardest thing to do when you're almost five because you get bored really fast and you have to keep asking how far the place is that you're going. Almost five-year-olds like to look at books in the car to keep themselves busy, but don't let them do that because they might get car sick and barf. Or cry about almost barfing. Or tell you to go slow so you don't make them barf. Or just make barfing noises and hold their hands over their mouth to scare you.
And if you think they're just "crying barf", they're not.
Cleaning up your bedroom is a snap when you're almost five. All you have to do is make a pile of toys in the corner of the room and then cover it with a blanket. Even if there are a few rogue socks and shoes in the pile, nobody will ever know it. Organizing is for big people, so if you wait long enough someone will come around and clean it up the right way.
Although it's a bit tricky being almost five, it certainly is a lot of fun. Rocking-out to music and burping out loud after meals isn't nearly as embarrassing as it is when you're almost six.
Oh, and when you're almost five you sometimes tell fibs about eating jelly beans. If you don't want an almost five year old to eat your jelly beans, be sure to keep them near the cups.

see more dog pictures

noontime allegro

raindrops slice summer heat
dozing frogs a capella
a fleeting heat-wave hymn