I don’t claim to be an expert at many things. I can’t cook, my driving skills are similar to that of a 90 year old woman, and and I’ve got a singing voice that only a mother could love. However, there is one thing that I can claim professional on and that, my friends, is worrying. I mean seriously, if there was an Olympic sport for worrying, I’d get the gold medal hands down. (As I write this, I’m actually worrying that I might have possibly offended someone by claiming worlds best at worrying…you aren’t offended by that though…are you?)
So it was really no surprise that I hit a big old brick wall of worry when I brought Sauce to the groomers for the first time. Having never stepped foot in a groomers, I had no idea what to expect, but was immediately bombarded with a slew full of questions and decisions, none of which I knew how to answer…puppy cut? Wheaten cut? Length of hair? Why were these people asking me these things? Did I look like someone who had any clue what that even meant? Couldn’t these people see the sweat dripping down my temple? Weren’t they the experts? Weren’t they supposed to just tell me what they were going to do to Sauce let me shop around Boston for one glorious puppy-free hour and deliver me one freshly bathed pup who smelled like sunshine and roses? Stop making my blood pressure rise! Stop asking me about things I don’t know! Stop making me worry that you are going to butcher my dogs locks (which at that stage in our relationship was his only enduring quality)!
After randomly shaking my head up and down and side to side to questions I couldn’t even process, I ran as fast as I could out and worried for the hour I had to wait that I told them the wrong thing. When I finally got my beautiful fluffy long flowing hair-ed puppy back, I realized the silliness of my worry. Yes, he lost his mangey shag, which I believed looked adorable….but he did have a little mohawk poof on the top of his head which made him look pretty rad. And the little guy did seem to enjoy being able to actually see.
Maybe I’ll worry a little less in 8 weeks when I bring Sauce back to the groomers. Maybe I won’t stutter over questions and let my body temperature rise to over 189 degrees. Maybe I’ll realize that a bad doggy haircut wouldn’t be the end of the world…maybe…but probably not.
Here is Sauce’s new look.