Trim

I have given the dogs a haircut.

The sun was shining, and it is a very outdoor thing to do, so it was my Job Of The Day.

The thing is that to do this, first you have got to find some clothes that you want to throw away afterwards. Anything that you wear gets so encrusted with dog hair that it is impossible to remove it. Attempts to wash it away only lead to the inside of the washing machine, and any other garments in the same load being similarly encrusted, somehow without improving the state of the first in the least little bit. 

I found some that I had prepared earlier, a couple of days ago. It was an ancient dress that had been nice when new, which was not very recently, but which had become baggy and shapeless and the seams scratchy. In fact it was in the dustbin already and had to be dug out and the ash brushed off it.

Mark put a board on the top of the dustbin and I hauled a very reluctant Roger Poopy on to the top of it. He knew exactly what was going to happen next and curled himself into the tightest ball that he could manage, and lay there, trembling.

This is not the optimum position for having a tidy haircut. I unwrapped his legs and his tail, which nevertheless kept springing back, and shaved him.

If I am going to give the dogs a haircut I want the results to last as long as possible, because they do not enjoy the process one little bit, so I set the clippers to Bald.

It is quite satisfying to shave a mass of hair off the dogs like that, because they look quite different underneath. It is a discovery of a new dog, like unwrapping a very hairy present and discovering something smelly and newly enthusiastic inside.

I am pleased to say that despite minimal co-operation from the two of them I managed the whole operation without once drawing blood, although I discovered one or two patches where the cat in the Library Gardens had beaten me to it.

It took ages, because it is not easy to shave under a dog’s armpits when they are trying very hard to clamp their legs as close to their body as possible. Also they do not trust sharp things around their nether regions, although I suppose this is understandable in Roger Poopy’s case. They did not listen to my explanations about it being far safer to lie very still, and that mishaps happened as a consequence of unpredictable wriggling.

It is also quite difficult to manage a tidy shave when you have got to keep one elbow jammed into your subject’s throat to prevent them from leaping up and unexpectedly buzzing off.

I am very glad I am not a hairdresser.

In the end it was done, and they leapt to the ground and shook themselves and sneezed a lot, but nevertheless were very pleased to find themselves newly cool and liberated.

I dashed into the house, where I stripped my furry dress off almost before I had got through the back door, and dived straight into the shower, the prickling from dog hair being unbearable. Then I returned it to the dustbin with massive relief.

The dogs lay in the sunshine and shivered for the rest of the day. I would have liked to lie in the sunshine as well, but Lucy had brought back a car full of wet camping things.

She did not leap out of bed determined to organise them all into readiness for her next adventure. In fact she was so exhausted she slept until three in the afternoon, when she emerged, rubbing her eyes and yawning, thinking that she might like a Pot Noodle for breakfast.

I washed her bedding and Mark hung her sodden tent on the line, where it dripped for ages.

She thought that she would unpack her bag tomorrow.

I haven’t taken a picture of the dogs. Have a picture of the front garden. The giant thing is something grown from a tiny seedling my mother gave me. I had thought it was a delphinium, but now I am not sure. It is about eight feet tall.