Buddy's Ridin' Dirty

My having been MIA for a bit has alarmed some readers. Specifically the official stalker of Wiping the Crazy off My Face. Rest assured I have not been napped nor have I sustained a head injury that rendered me unable to type. I'm back now after my court-ordered, I mean completely voluntary, period of writing rest.

Today was dog grooming day in the House of Sher. The two Yorkie brothers smelled like monkey ass and their appearance was such that looking like a monkey's ass would have been a step up.

Yes, there are places one can go to take Yorkies to be foofed and primped. What you need to know about that is I am both too soft-hearted and too cheap to toss my boys in a box and take them there. Mr. Man has filled my head full of dog groomer horror stories so dramatic and Steven King-ish, I can't bring myself to do it. Plus it costs as much as roughly 50 pints of Ben & Jerry's ice cream and nothing is worth that sacrifice.

Tanner is the smallest and weighs in right at 3.5 pounds. Buddy is the youngest but the bigger of the two. He weighs about what a small Volkswagen does. They are very different dogs. Tanner loves getting a bath. He runs to the tub and tries to stand tall enough on his hind legs to see the water running. I believe it's because he likes to have his penis washed.

Which would explain why Mr. Man does the exact same thing.

Buddy on the other hand cowers when anyone says anything that even remotely rhymes with "bath". He climbs to the back of the sofa and sinks down as low as he can in the mistaken belief he is somehow wearing sofa camo. I always know where he is simply because it's hard to miss a Volkswagen sized thing shaking so violently the pictures on your wall are rattling.

The bath part is bad enough, but when you factor in having to also bust out the dog hair-cutter thingie, the scissors, and the dog brush, Buddy just damn near has an infarction.

Today was such a day. I put down pads on the bathroom floor so that I might cut his hair because it's only rained enough in my city to justify Googling "how to build an arc in 800 easy steps out of things you already have around the house". No way I could do it outside.

I plopped him down and fired up my high quality trimmers and began mowing away. He was OK so long as I only planned to work on the center strip of his back. He even licked me on the nose. But as it began to dawn on him that I was maneuvering him in such a way so that I might get near the only thing he has left of his doghood, he did what I suspect the smallest guy in an Arkansas prison cell does after his cellmate tells him he reminds him of his sister.

He sat down and clinched the ground with his butt cheeks like a tornado was about to blow through the bathroom.

I tried talking to him. "Buddy listen. If you think this is my ideal way to spend a Saturday you are sorely mistaken. I would much rather do just about anything other than shave your behind but I do it because I love you. Now release your death grip and allow me to shove this sharp electric razor between your legs."

He did not comply.

I resorted to shaming him. "Look at your brother Buddy! Tanner thinks you're a big baby. He's laughing at you because he knows a dog with no anal hair is a happy dog. See his ass? See how nice it looks?"

He was not persuaded.

I tried bribing him. "Would you like a cookie? 'Cause I only give cookies to dogs whose behinds look like Brazilian dog butts."

Nada.

At this point I began to accept that Buddy was never, ever giving up his rear end without a fight. "Fine," I said to him. "I'll finish up with your face and ears and then we'll get back to your no-no place when Paw-Paw gets home."

He was greatly relieved. That is until I ran the trimmers over his giant Dumbo ears and nicked one of them. He did not cry. He did not even flinch. What he chose to do instead was bleed as though I had attempted a kidney transplant in a war zone. There was blood all over his ear, blood all over my WHITE T-shirt and blood all over the towel.

Because I am excellent in a crisis situation I sprang into action. I grabbed my cell phone just before I hit the ground and managed to say to Mr. Man, "Get home right now."

That's right kids. The OCD Chick had to lie down on the disgusting dog hair covered bathroom floor in short order before I involuntarily laid down. My upper lip was sweating and tingly, my face was clammy and the bathroom was spinning.

Mr. Man came home to find me sprawled out, covered in so much hair and blood I looked like I had fought off a werewolf attack. Even in the face of my own demise I was ever the loving, caring, nurturer. I whimpered, "Check Buddy! I think I chopped off his ear."

Buddy strolled over to him like it was no big thang and as he stepped right over my head, his unshaved Yorkie ass passing right above my nose, I swear on Rock Hudson he whispered, "That's how I roll, bitch."

Stupid ghetto dog.
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This is what Buddy has been playing on his iPod all afternoon now:



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