Monday, July 6, 2020

She Cut My Nails, But I Let Her Live

Dusty Quinn

Still in the Covid-19 quarantine and my real groomer hasn’t opened her shop.  I’ve sort of adjusted to my human bathing me and cutting my fur, I know her intentions are good.  She does her best for someone who doesn’t know what she’s doing, but I’ve drawn the line at her cutting my nails.  Oh, she’s tried, but I’ve outfoxed her at every turn.  I sat on my paws, took to my bed, went so far as to lower my standards and hide in the cat crate.  And when she finally did get hold of me I refused to allow her to touch my feet, even let out a pretend growl just to scare her.  Look at those giant clippers.  What if she cuts off a whole nail?  What if she cuts all of them too short and there’s pain and bleeding involved? What if I freak out a bunch and bite her?  Oh, there’s just too much at stake, but by now I should realize who I’m dealing with.  She’s sweet, loving, kind and doing really well working on patience, but she’s still way too determined to get things done.  And so today she’s on a nail clipping mission and my paws are in the line of fire. 

Before I know what hits me, I find myself scrunched under her arm, hauled out on the deck and plopped on top of the picnic table.  Now she’s playing dirty, knows I don’t like to be on tables, knows I’ll acquiesce because of the height.  I’m frightened even though she’s laying over me keeping me safe, but while I’m scared and immobile doesn’t my old girl commence cutting.  And doesn’t she do a pretty good job – no blood, no pain, no major amputations.  Back safely on the deck floor I’m still pretty annoyed, want to howl and whimper and growl all at the same time.  She hands me a treat.  Okay, this is good. I calm down and eat my cookie. She gives me a gentle pat.  I wonder if it occurs to her that I could have transformed into a nasty critter biting her from head to toe.  Between you and me, I wouldn’t know how to be unpleasant. I’m a pretty nice guy.   Paws still attached and my nails look good.   I really like my old girl, so I’ll keep my mean dog persona to myself ending the fantasy proudly knowing I decided to let her live. 


Human here who has been granted a reprieve.  That giant weapon I’m accused of wielding was my little nail clipper.  He’s so dramatic.  Don’t know where he gets that from.   He also bounces back pretty quickly from these so called traumas.  Wish I could adopt that trait.  While he munches his cookie treat, I massage my arthritic muscles aching from keeping a squirming dog in check and moan loudly about aging.  I consider myself a positive thinker, but do admit to more than the occasional whine about getting old.  In truth, I’ve always had a goal of aging in good spirits like my little Dusty who’s no spring chicken, but is a pretty happy boy.  Maybe sweet Dusty will be my aging mentor (William and Abner, too), because I’m not doing too well on my own.