Yesterday was rough on Kingsley. I took some awful advice and took him to a groomer who wasn’t so much a groomer as two very angry ladies with clippers. I should have listened to my instincts when I was driving there and felt the need to lock my doors. But, no, I tried not to judge a book by its cover and went inside anyway. After the woman hacked up a whiskey-coated hairball, she asked me if I was getting him shaved. I said no, as I’d told her over the phone, there was to be no shaving. So the kids and I left (Mitchell very reluctantly). Five hours later, I called to check on him. Still not even dry from the bath. Seven hours later, I called again. Still not done. NINE HOURS LATER, I called again. They’d started working on him. Of course, by this point, my imagination was running wild. I was picturing Kingsley being sold on the black market or laying there, in the middle of a seizure, on the table. At the very least, I figured he hadn’t had anything to drink since I’d dropped him off. So I loaded up the kids and headed to the ghetto. I walk in, and I swear, it looked like someone had pulled all the stuffing out of an entire living room set. The two ladies were wading through fur. They were PISSED. If they’d been professional groomers, they would have known just by looking at him that the dog has some massive undercoat. But they were caught unaware by the amount of fur and you could tell. You could also tell that their entire business was built around shaving dogs. They sat there berating me for not getting him shaved while they finished him up. They said some pretty mean, unprofessional, and downright incorrect things in those fifteen minutes. And then they charged me almost three times as much as they’d quoted me. They wouldn’t give him to me until I paid and Rosie was screaming or I would have thrown a hissy fit.
I finally get Kingsley outside. I could tell he really needed to pee, so I positioned him right in front of their window. Hell hath no fury, people. Kingsley then embarked on the longest pee of his entire life.
So, at this point, Mitchell notices what Kingsley is doing. “Kingsley pee outside!”
“Yes, dogs pee outside.”
“I pee outside too!”
“Um, no. You have to wait until we get home.”
“No, no, I go outside too!”
Thankfully, Kingsley finished up before Mitchell could make good on his threat. He did, however, promise Kingsley some M&Ms when we got home because he did a “good job!”
So, fast forward an hour or so, and we’re all out in the backyard. I look up and see Mitchell tugging at his pants, so I yell at him to go inside and use the restroom.
“Nope, I’m going pee outside!”
What the hell, kid? I try again to get him inside, then, since I had no idea how many seconds I had before he let loose in the backyard, I run after him. We ended up in this really embarrassing chase scene where he’s running around the yard holding his pants up by the crotch and I’m chasing him yelling that dogs pee outside, Mitchell pees inside. And, as always happens in these embarrassing moments, I look up and see my really old neighbor watching the whole thing.
I’m guessing she isn’t inviting us over for cookies anytime soon.