FIGARO, FIGARO FIGARO, FEEEEGAR-O

         My dog does not shed her hair. Aren't I lucky? The hair grows in on itself to form mats. It is fairly easy to run a steel pronged brush through her back and flanks to keep the hair from gnarling, but brushing her legs, face and underside requires someone with patience, understanding and a sweet dispostion. In other words, not me.

         As she ages, the dog's legs grow wider and wider from the matted hair. Her feet become enormous and her eyes are covered with hair while her jowls are puffed with more matted hair. The dog could be described to have floppy ears, but perhaps they are floppy mats. Most sheepdogs have bobbed tails. Being a mix, Farfel's tail is still long and multiplying.

         The vet insists the dog be clipped or shaved, at least the legs and ears. Friends try to hit me with a guilt trip, talking about the poor hot dog forced to wear 'all that hair'. I point out she lived the first five years of life that way, spending summers soaking herself in the local creek every evening, and that even when groomed, her first act afterward is to roll in the grass, but this does not stop the hectoring.

         I called the number of the woman who clipped and shaved her two years ago, got the answer machine, left my name and asked her if she remembered Farfel. Evidently she did because she did not call back, even after a second message was left. I do not know why she does not want to deal with this ninety-five pounds of fur. I was not there when she did the job the first time. Could it be religious differences?

         At least I have the defense of 'I have a call in to the groomer' when people ask, and they do ask. I have the consolation that in three months it will be cold again and the critics will shut up. In the meantime, I take a barber scissors and clip her back and head, cutting off some of the worst of the mats. People actually do notice that her hair is shorter, but does this stop them from complaining?

         Last Sunday, as she lay on the couch, I decided to tackle the tail, or rather the three tails that she seemed to have. Cutting here, cutting there, I had eliminated some of the mats. My sister and my friend Jackie were watching the process. Just as I was thinking of the money I was saving, Farfel suddenly growled, yowled and looked at me with a face that said "how could you be so stupid?'

         I noticed blood in her tail, on the couch, and on my hands. It was flowing quite freely. She jumped off the couch, dripping blood on the rug and heading for the tile covered dining area. Army first aid came back to me.

"Elevate the wound and apply pressure."

I could not find the cut for a few minutes, but my hands were covered with blood so I knew I was close.

         I did not know that my new friend doubled as the Lady With The Lamp. She kept bringing me soaked paper towels to wrap around the tail, while I applied pressure. As each became filled with blood, another came. All the while, my sister comforted me and the dog with tales of wolves. I noticed the blood flow slackening and asked my nurse to soak the next towel with peroxide, which did not cause the dog to jump. I was getting somewhere!

         The blood flow let up after ten minutes. Now my sister offered a hankerchief, but I sent my nurse to get one of my own. I tied it around the tail and called the emergency clinic, forty miles away. The dog barked the whole way there. When we registered, it was obvious the story had already spread amongst the other pet owners that were there, but seeing the size of my dog, no one said much.

         The vet first feared I had cut off the tip, but, after shaving the matted and bloody hair, he found only a deep laceration which he bandaged and sent her home with the fool that brought her. Two days later I took her to our vet because the bandage was hanging. He asked when I would get her clipped. I went into my song and dance routine, but he would not hear it and had his people call another groomer. She agreed to take the dog sight unseen.

         Two days later Farfel and I were in the basement of an old house in Claverack. Farfel was fortified by a tranquilizer given an hour before.
The clippers came out; and the fur began to fly. It was not easy. The clippers kept overheating, jamming, and not going through the matted growth of two years. I was beginning to think an emergency shipment of heads would be needed for the clippers, but after a sweaty ninety minutes most of the hair was gone and Farfel was in the bath.

         Three hours and fifty dollars later, the lady finished. She tied a scarf around Farfel's neck and was going to put a bow on her. I objected to the latter. She did manage to put some stuff on her for sun block and then finished her off with eau de canine. She charged so little I could not help but tip her another twenty dollars.

         When we got home, I snapped a Polaroid and emailed her photo to Jackie, maybe to start a chain letter of guilt. The cat came out, saw the dog, and must have laughed because the dog chased her. I haven't seen the cat since. Doesn't she recognize Farfel? Could it be the smell? Or maybe the cat is smart? Could she have overheard me when I said that her coat was looking a little long.

"NEEEEXT!"

Valatie July 1, 2001