I don’t think I’ve mentioned it before, (Who am I kidding? This is only my eighth post; I know I haven’t mentioned it.) but I am not the only Diva in residence at the New Digs.
I share my space with Vivian. More accurately, she kindly shares her space with me. I am just the one who makes the mortgage payments.
I also do the housekeeping, the laundry, the grocery shopping, I pay the utility bills. I tend the lawn, I cook the meals. In short, I do everything. If I was married to Vivian, I would divorce her.
What does Vivian do? Nothing. She lounges. She enjoys afternoon naps. She has her meals served on fancy china. She has an amazing wardrobe. Vivian lives a privileged life; The life I want to lead.
It’s not all wine and roses with Miss. Vivian. She is whiny and demanding. When she doesn’t get her way, she bites. Worse, when no one is looking (and occasionally when they are), she licks her butt.
Vivian is four pounds of fur, fangs, and fury. She is the bitch of all bitches.
Miss. Vivian is what’s known as the dreaded teacup poodle. Her sweet looks are deceptive, she is coy and demur, but come within six feet of her with any grooming implement and, without hesitation, she will chew your face off, then bite your leg just for good measure.
It is for that reason and that reason alone that the mere thought of Vivian’s impending trip to the beauty parlor strikes fear in my very soul.
The ride in the car is not pleasant.
She starts with a mewling whine.
Six blocks later the whine turns into a pleading cry.
By the time we arrive at the salon she has worked herself into an eardrum-shattering frenzy. There is no eighties hair band played at any decibel level loud enough to drown out her wails of protest. I don’t even try anymore.
This (dare I say) d.o.g. is a genius. Her brain may be the size of a peanut, but she’s a clever one, this Vivian. She has managed to do what no man could achieve. Vivian has trained me. She has taken control. Vivian calls the shots.
It is my fear of her disapproval that causes me to delay the inevitable.
I wait to schedule her hair appointment until her appearance is so disheveled that my fear of a visit from the S.P.C.A. overrides my fear of her wrath.
The time has come. I am counting down the hours with dread.
There is no way around it.
She is going.
I am taking her.
I am spending the sixty five dollars that I would rather spend on my own sassy summer coif on Vivian.
Not because she deserves it or that she will appreciate it. Because she won’t.
I am doing it because I have to.
Because I am more afraid of the S.P.C.A. and the disapproving looks of the new neighbors than I am of bloodshed.
I can only hope if blood is shed, that it won’t be mine.
photo by antique dog photos @flickr