Taming the Terrier

Things are much lighter here at the our house. For one thing our Norwich, Winston, got hand stripped yesterday. He went from a lion to…not a lamb; heavens, no: Winston is all terrier. He was decidedly shaggy before; now he’s half his size, with soft downy fur. As a bonus, he smells much less beastly.

Norwich’s have a double coat, and the hard, wiry outer coat should be stripped a few times a year. Stripping doesn’t hurt, at least if done correctly, and while I can handle Winston’s outer regions, he doesn’t like me fiddling with his upper back and chest. So yesterday he went 30 miles north to Wags to Riches (don’t you think Wags and Bitches would be a better name?) and voila, his soft undercoat, red and shiny, was revealed.

But first, we stopped by PetSmart and weighed him, and he was down to 13 pounds. We stopped feeding dry kibble in February and now the dogs eat fresh food. Once I started making them home cooked meat, whole grains and vegetables, I realized this is the way we should all be eating, and I increased the volume. So I’m not sure if we are eating dog food, or the dogs are eating people food. Whichever, we are all much happier, attacking our food bowls with vigor, saving money and, at least the dogs have lost weight. Me? I’m still working on it.

The dog literature on Norwiches is unequivocal: a Norwich should weigh 12 pounds. At one point Winston tipped the scales at almost 17. He was quite the porker. He leads the good life. We stopped by a birthday party on the way home from the groomers and I heard an acquaintance saying meaningfully about Winston, “he is treated very well.” She didn’t mean it in a good way. I say in my defense, that I realize there are a few issues, and both he and Miss Darcy are going to dog training next month, and then they will be perfect. Anyway, he was completely tuckered out when we got home and laid on the floor, too pooped to beg to be lifted onto a lap. (Okay, he does lead a charmed life.) We suspected he was a bit disgusted, by the grooming, the fancy-schmancy shampoo, and, most of all, by the big bow tied to his collar. We screwed with his mighty terrier image.

Here in Sacramento, the California fires have made the air unbreathable, and we’ve been holed up in our house for days, at least after work. During the day, life’s gone on as usual, which has been alarming to me. When the air is phlegm green and you can’t even see the sun in June shouldn’t alarms go off? Shouldn’t we evacuate all of Northern California: head for somewhere where you can take a clean breath? Though I suppose that would be nowhere. We saw Wall-E yesterday, and the movie takes place in a post apocalyptic Earth, and I swear the air looked healthier than what we had in Sacramento on Friday.

But a Delta breeze finally kicked in late afternoon, taking some of the bad air further north, and while the sky wasn’t clean, at least you could see a whitish cloud or two, and we finally felt okay about taking the dogs for a walk.

We were all so happy. At the park there was a congregation of neighbors, kids and dogs, and we mingled, relieved to be out of the house, breathing the still murky air, probably damaging our lungs in some kind of permanent way. Winston was in the thick of things; he is so gregarious, and people are curious about what kind of dog he is, which led to other conversational topics, not the least of which were the fires and bad air. Miss Darcy, the shy one, enjoyed a pet or two.

After we left the park, we didn’t go straight home; it felt good to take a long detour. We chatted with some neighbors from the next subdivision over who we haven’t seen in ages. Even almost home, Winston was in heaven, racing down the street, dragging my husband by the leash, the way he’s not supposed to, all 13 pounds of mighty Norwich.