This past weekend I had to take my dog Max to the groomer for his annual bath and shave.  Taking Max to the groomers is always a fun experience, and by “fun” I mean I’d rather my gynecologist have hooks for hands than ever have to take Max anywhere.  I know I’ve spoken about Max before here on my blog, but I can’t stress this enough: he is weird as hell.  Don’t get me wrong, I love Max with all my heart and when I die I’ll probably leave all my early possessions to him, but he is so strange.  My mom thinks his mental state is a result of inbreeding.  Now as sexy as the incestuous image of Max’s trailer park aunt humping his cousin may be, I really think his state of mind is the result of inter-species breeding.  Meaning that I think his mother mated with Forrest Gump.  Life really is a box of chocolates, except for Max because if he ate any he’d die.

So, the only way I can get Max to the groomers is by tricking him into thinking we’re going to the dog park because I’m a terrible person who enjoys using trickery and deceit to get what she wants.  I’m like Joan Crawford, except I love wire hangers.  We pull up to the groomers and he immediately starts freaking out.  I tell him its all going to be OK, but we both know I’m lying.  He won’t get out of the car so I decide I need to physically carry him in.  Since I have the upper body strength of Justin Bieber after an intense ping pong tournament, this was very difficult.  Have you ever tried to carry a 50 pound unwilling creature towards it’s doom?  The only previous experience  I have doing such a thing was that one time I tried to carry a midget I met at a carnival towards the kissing both.  Dammit, Stephanie that is so un-PC of you.  By “midget” I mean little person and by “kissing booth” I mean S&M and extreme bondage in my basement.

Anyways, I pick Max up and try and hold him in a fireman’s carry, but all I can manage is hunching over and cradling him shakily in both arms like a newborn baby.  I look like Wilfred Brimley carrying a lump sack of potatoes.  He’s so old!  Luckily, we finally enter the pet store which is a good thing since I’m about 5 seconds from keeling over in exhaustion.  I carefully deposit Max on the ground and do ten toe touches to stretch out my hamstrings.  Unfortunately we’re still about 40 yards away from the groomer’s section of the building and Max is as skittish as ever.

I turn to my last resort and fling a handful of dog bones in the groomer’s direction.   Max forgets his woes for a moment and happily skips over to them.  He gobbles all of them down in about two seconds, which makes me worry he’ll vomit from nervousness later while he’s getting groomed.  I shake it off because I don’t like dealing with my feelings and pat Max’s head hoping we’ve turned the page and can get to the groomer’s without any more problems.

That’s when Max walks over to a stack of kitty litter bags, lifts up his leg and pees on them.  Fan-fucking-tastic.  I’m going to get thrown out of this pet store for disorderly conduct.  I don’t think I can survive prison, I don’t know any gang signs and I don’t like showering in public.  I peer down into Max’s eyes looking for support and love and notice they are redder than the Devil’s sparkling crimson cape.  They are redder than Lindsay Lohan’s bloodshot eyes after a 3 day bender with Ru Paul.  I think he might be having an aneurysm.  ”Maybe he doesn’t need to get his hair cut after all!” I think to myself.  ”So what if his hair is greasier than Colin Farrell’s mustache and he’s got batter on his ear from when I made cupcakes last week! We’ll just live in filth!”  No, I can’t do that.  I don’t want to spend my twilight years appearing on Hoarders.  So I freak out, pick him and carry him the rest of the way.

Later, I asked the groomer why his eyes were so red:
Her:  Because he’s stressed.
Me:  But I’m stressed too and my eyes don’t look like that!
Her:  You’re not a dog.
Me:  Thank you, I like compliments!

Here’s Max after his haircut and bath!  Isn’t he handsome? As you can tell from his eyes he’s haunted by the ghost of Craig T. Nelson.  Added bonus, he smells like sugar cookies!