Dog Grooming: The Good, the Bad, and the Neglectful

I have two small dogs. They aren’t high maintenance, but their fur is. Winston, my Norwich, needs to have his coat hand stripped every few months. Miss Darcy, the Bichon, probably should be brushed every day.

It doesn’t happen. Miss Darcy bears more of the brunt of my neglect. She’s a frou-frou dog that runs along the banks of the Sacramento River, her curly furred feet wet with mud. Hosing her off causes matting and makes brushing her difficult. It would help if I started with a clean slate, but she usually goes a week or two without a good brushing.

It’s been hot here in Sacramento, and I can only guess how it must feel to be a dog, wearing a fur coat in weather that’s over 100 degrees, even a suburban dog, lolling around the house all day. It cooled off a little today. Probably to 95 degrees or so.

It was a good Sunday today. We sat around the backyard after dinner, my husband Steve and Winston and Darcy. The Delta breeze had just started to kick in. I started plucking Winston. If you stay toward his back, he’s okay with it and I got mounds of fur from him like always, mostly because I stuck to his comfort zone. Whenever I stray up his back, he’d let me know he wasn’t having it. My hands would barely graze the fur on his terrier mane, and he’d give a high pitched squeal, and I would back off.

Later, flush with the pile of red Winton fur, I gave Miss Darcy a try. She's harder and neither of us looks forward to it. For once though the gods of dog grooming were with me, and I got it right. Gentle, so gentle, as if we had all the time in the world. And she loved it, for once, being brushed by me. We bonded, big time. It as exactly the same as when my daughter Danielle was little. What a surprise, finding this out, that you can go back in time, brushing my dog’s hair, not because it needed brushing, but because it felt sweet, having a warm body in your lap, the rhythmic back and forth of the brush, the fingers, gently looking for new territory to try, the trust that that, too, would all be as perfect as the first tug of the grooming tool.

And I did have all the time in the world. Nowhere to be, no appointment waiting, me tense, trying to make up for weeks of neglect, so I could bring in dog to my groomer that looked half way attended to. I don't want you to think I'm mean to my dogs: I don’t think I’ve ever done more than tug too hard on Darcy; I would never really hurt her. I give up the minute she starts to tense, but she certainly does not enjoy our grooming sessions. And I’m sure I pass on to my groomer a matted dog that’s going to be a chore.

So I don’t hurt my dog. I pay someone else to do it.

This time she falls asleep in the middle of it.

I want more of this. Moments with not much to do, no where to be, no list of chores to get through; a dog in my lap, both of us content. Winston of course was jealous, so he sat in my lap, too. My hands grazed his fur, up top near his mane and I thought about trying.

And thought again.

Success with a Bichon is one thing. Terriers are a whole other animal.

So Winston has an appointment with a professional groomer next week to finish the hand stripping I started. I know two things as a dog person: 1. Perfect moments are attainable. 2. Don't push your luck