Trimming the Willow

8:09 AM 

Willow the Pillow

I'm early. I'm almost always early. Its the worst when you know you don't want to be early, but can't help leaving so that you can get there early. The vet said get here at 8:15. I hate late, so here I am. Willow hates the vet's office and knows we have arrived. She is making her discontent clear; her whinging understandable given her first contact with the vet's office in a year was last week, which consisted of shot after shot. She wasn't behind on her vaccines, in fact she was on schedule, but she had a shitload to get and got them she did. So, now I am afraid of getting her out of the car, for fear she will drag me at 20 miles per hour away from here. 

8:58 AM 

Back home. Work is as crazy as ever. I am hating this being alone without Willow--this is the first time since we have had her where she isn't home with me or out on a walk. Wild. 

Willow has been groomed precisely twice in her life. The first groom, done by a mobile groomer (a gift to my dying wife) when Jenny was alive, was performed by a guy who we are fairly certain beat her. He had the personality, the groomer, of Anton Chigurh, the murderer in No Country for Old Men. Creepy isn't a good enough descriptor--that describes someone that is between Uncle Fester and Jeffrey Epstein. This guy, worse. Much worse. Willow has not cottoned to another man since. Mat, my go-to fix it guy, has been coming to my house for more than 3 years, and while Willow adores him (as evidenced by her running around, waggety tail, and happy barks on his arrival--and her insistence to be outside when he is, will not let him pet her. Not at all. 

Before

I feel terrible about this--my hypothesis led me to taking her to a female groomer last spring--a little old white lady who was clearly afraid of me, if not Willow. She should have had better sense. Willow's hairdo--was beyond messy--it was a matted and tangled mess. It was a cash only business. The home was ramshackle, but inviting. The yard was fenced, a large driveway width fence made of 4x4s and chicken wire the entryway. Chickens ran loose around the yard, small dogs could be heard barking--maybe from inside the house, but by no means visible. Broken down cars sat in the driveway, covered in a layer of grime and silt, looking as if they were waiting for some archeologist to dig them up. The woman had an old trailer in which she did the grooming. She was with an assistant. 

They did their level best. I did not accompany Willow into the trailer. However, given her skittishness, I also didn't leave the driveway. About 40 minutes in, yelling began emanating from the trailer. I bolted to the trailer and walked into the very narrow and disheveled space. It was about the smallest trailer you can imagine. There was a table for the dog, large enough to hold a pregnant Chihuahua, or so it seemed with Willow perched there. The assistant was valiantly trying to restrain the beast as the groomer herself struggled to shave Willow's mats. Willow didn't like this. She kept trying to get away. The assistant was straining so hard to hold the dog in place that her face was redder than a tug-of-war anchor. Willow was scared and threatened--my entrance had calmed her a bit, but not much and not for long. She really hated the sound of the clippers. This became more evident when the groomer had the temerity to shave Willow's muzzle, which had some decent matting. Willow became aggressive and lunged at the groomer with ill intentions. This was a first. I grabbed hold of Willow to help the assistant and keep 

After

the groomer from becoming dinner. Willow is strong. Bernese Mountain Dogs--half of her breed--were bred to pull carts in the Swiss Alps. At near 80 lbs, she has the strength of a linebacker, and the tenacity of a free climber. I decided, rather than another lunge, or waiting to finish, we call it quits. 300+ dollars later, we were in the Tundra driving home. 

That was last April. In the last few months her hair has gotten longer and messier and mats began forming. I took to following her around with a pair of grooming scissors, cutting mats from her fur. She became very patient with me doing it over time. I even cut off the mats around her muzzle. However, at the rate I was clipping her hair, she'd have looked like a Hair Bear had I not taken her in today. Sedation spa day wasn't cheap, but I am so happy for her and know that she will be a happier dog for it.

1:07 PM 

She is home, high as fuck, and paranoid. She keeps running away from things I can't see (Not because of my old man eyesight). Moreover, she is not just running, but scrambling. I wish I could talk to her and explain she is going to be ok. Imagine waking up having had all of your hair shorn while you slept. Also, you are high on versed or morphine or such like. I will say, the number of times I have had to get up to attend to a need or a feigned need has decreased by orders of magnitude. I won't complain about that, it is tedious, but I can't wait for her to get back to being herself.

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7:50 PM 

Willow has vomited three times--its normal after sedation for her to be off-kilter for 12-24 hours. She is paranoid, although lesser this evening as we approach the 12th hour. She randomly gets up and runs from place to place to lay down, looking around frantically for whatever threat she perceives. She is finally in her perch on the corner of the couch and looking out the window, for the first time, so maybe it is/will pass sooner than I feared. Finally, if you can't laugh at this madness--and it only will get worse for the foreseeable future--you will lose your mind.