The place where we get our dog groomed is called The Dog Salon.  I absolutely love this establishment.  They are fabulous, and they will do whatever you ask, including hair color.  Seriously.  Last time I was there I saw a pink poodle.  There’s not much I haven’t seen there, including some of the most fabulous ink around.  It’s totally punk and retro cool.

Now, what you don’t see much of at the dog salon is men.  After this weekend, I know why.

We have a bichon frisé, the ultimate in frou-frou dogs.  His name is Teddy, and he’s fabulous.  If he could talk, he’d sound like the wedding planner from Father of the Bride.  Fabulous!!!  Cute, cuddly, furry, wonderful, and unfortunately, now an elderly 12 closing in on 13.  So I’ve started to space out his groomer visits a bit out of respect for the horrible arthritis in his front legs.

This is what Teddy normally looks like:

I know?  Adorable, right?

 

While I can stand having Teddy be fluffy and happy, Mark would prefer that his hair not touch his metaphorical collar and that he have a boot-camp style.  So it gets to a point where he asks me every three minutes if I’ve made an appointment for Teddy to be groomed yet.  Seriously.  He nags me.  And thus I’ve learned two things:

1. Nagging is actually annoying.
2. Nagging is a problem easily solved.  If you are the nagee, simple DO the thing the nag is asking you to do.  Voila!  The nagging ceases!

That’s what I did on Saturday, snagging the last grooming appointment of the day so that Teddy wouldn’t be mistaken for a sheepdog instead of a bichon.

Mark volunteered to take Teddy, and as the appointment wasn’t with our usual groomer, I told him, “Make sure you tell her to do a puppy cut on the body and a teddy bear head, not the big bichon head.”

Mark, staring down at his iPhone: “Got it.”

Me: “So, what exactly, are you going to say?”

Mark, now typing on his iPhone (and I’m pretty sure he wasn’t taking notes on what I was telling him): “Cut him really close and make sure his head is really short.”

Me:  “No, no.  You say you want a puppy cut with a teddy bear head.  That’s how it’s always done.  ‘Make sure his head is really short’ kind of sounds like you’re sending him to the block.”

Mark, hitting send and shoving his phone into his pocket: “Don’t worry, I’ve got this.”

Several hours later, Mark returned home with a white version of the Taco Bell chihuahua.

“What. The. Hell,” I said flatly, “did you do to my dog?”

Teddy’s tail, formerly a puffy white plume, curved over his back, almost completely shaved, save the very end.  It looked like it belonged to the Chinese crested in How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days.

Or a possum.

“I think he looks great!” Mark said.

“You cannot be serious.  He looks like a canine plebe at the Naval Academy.”

“Just give it a couple of weeks and he’ll look perfectly normal,” Mark said, his tone sage, as if he were the Dali Lama of dog grooming.

As severe as his haircut was on top, I had no idea what had been done to his tummy and nether regions until I picked him up.  Cuddling this dog is usually an experience akin to cuddling a cloud spun of angel hair.  Now it’s like petting your arm.

To the best I can figure, Mark walked into the dog salon and said, “Take it all off, and make sure you clean it up around his bikini line.  Wait, scratch that, just give him a full Hollywood wax since we’re coming up on swimsuit season.  And he doesn’t need all that hair on his tail.  Or his ears.  Ok?  Great.”

Take note, ladies.  This is what happens when you send a man to do a woman’s job.  Your dog gets scalped and given a Brazilian.