It seems like I have written about Lizzie (our dog) an awful lot lately. She is a BIG deal at our house and with all of the rest of our dogs having jumped across the bridge. Lizzie is getting the attention she deserves.
A little background about Lizzie. She came from a litter of six female puppies. Her mother was Great Pyrenees with classic Pyrennes looks. Four of the puppies looked like their mother, but two of the puppies looked like English Sheepdogs with hair (bangs) that grows over their eyes. Lizzie was one of the hippie-looking dogs with the bangs.
The good thing about Lizzie is that she doesn't shed. She just grows hair and keeps it, until just like my parents used to say to me, "Lizzie you need a haircut." We're going to talk about me in a minute. I've said before, I'm writing these stories, they should be about me."
Much like myself, Lizzie is not a big fan of getting haircuts. Just like myself, when your hair covers your eyes, it is best to get a trim. Sounds simple, but it's not.
Lizzie weighs in at over one hundred pounds. She does not like the hair on her face messed with, especially cut. The poor thing doesn't have a violent bone in her body, but not she doesn't like haircuts and nail trims. She has to be sedated.
Elaine decided it was time for the haircut. You would think the story stops there, but it doesn't. As Lizzie has gotten older her rear legs don't work as well as they did as a pup. She doesn't like stairs so much and she doesn't like riding in the car. Truthfully, she doesn't mind the riding part, it is the getting in the car she is not very good at. Kind of makes you wonder why pickups are so high off the ground and cars are so small. It doesn't work for me either.
Moving along, Elaine and I got Lizzie in the car. One of us pulling, the other lifting and pushing. Once in the car Lizzie wants to stick her head out of the window and she is ready to ride. It is a forty-five-minute stressful ride to the groomer/veterinarian. I hope she does not need a bathroom break, aw, I hope I don't need one either.
You might have picked up that it was me taking her to the groomer. Elaine scheduled the appointment and threw up the "Well, I have a job, so you can take her." I had no defense, she was right. I had to take Lizzie. It didn't matter that the appointment coincided with Gunsmoke and Wagon Train (Channel 364).
At the groomer they weighed Lizzie. She wouldn't stop moving to get an accurate weight so we guesstimated around one hundred pounds. This was important to not over or under-sedate Lizzie. I was told to give them an hour and they would be finished with her haircut.
McDonald's was down the road with the new order boards and that's a story for another day. I had breakfast, (if you can call it that) and returned an hour later to pick up Lizzie. Lizzie came walking down the hallway front legs fully extended and crawling on her back legs. Crouched like a lion ready to spring. She had forgotten how to walk. That was some kind of great sedation. With the help of a tech, I put her in the car. Once home, she slept for over 24 hours, not even waking up to pee.
Elaine and I spent the day asking, "Is she dead?" The vet said it takes a while for old dogs to recover. He was right, she has recovered.
Haircuts can be traumatic. I can't say that my aversion to haircuts comes naturally or it was learned. I have plenty of reasons to hate them.
Let's start with my childhood. Every other Saturday, my dad would round up my four brothers and I set us on a chair in the kitchen, wrap a bath towel loosely around our necks, and cut our hair. Hair falling down our shirts, itching and scratching our necks and backs until it was our turn to take a bath. For special occasions, (Christmas) he would take us to Lon's Barbershop in Laporte, Colorado. That was a big deal, Dad and the boys in the front (only) seat of the pickup going to get a haircut. There was a lot of lap sitting in those days.
That's not the only thing I have against haircuts dating back to my childhood. I had a paper route as a kid. One of the families I delivered papers to was a barber and his family. My mom thought it would be right to have this man cut my hair BECAUSE he ALWAYS tipped me for my EXCELLENT service (I was an incredible paperboy.)
I liked going to his barbershop. He was a WWII war hero who did his heroic deeds in Italy. While in Italy he developed a love for Italian operas. He would play them and sing along. I guess he wasn't bad, but I just couldn't find the love for them. I started hating haircuts and operas. Are you catching my drift?
In my high school years, I let my hair grow a little. I cut it for my older brothers' weddings and there was that time I had a little run-in with the police. Mom picked me up at the police station and took me directly to the barber of her choice.
Eventually, my appearance was reflective of my career. I started going to a young lady to cut my hair that I knew from high school. Thirty years later she says to me, "I'm quitting' This is the last haircut I am ever going to do." She meant it. What she didn't know, was that was the last professional haircut I was ever going to get. From that moment on, if I felt my hair was too long, I stand in front of the mirror and cut it myself.
That said, I don't like haircuts, but I do like selling yarn. Buy some.
Love ya, God bless
Our crazy lives!