I took Henry to Petsmart last weekend for a quick nail trim. Normally, I would have run by our vet’s office, but time was tight and we were driving by the store. It should have been an easy thing, really. But fate had an entirely different agenda.
We made it into the store with relative ease, past the groups of chatting customers, past several unruly dogs, through the gauntlet of children who simply had to pet the big red dog. To the grooming area. To the counter. Only one person working there today? But she looked so small, so petite, so easily overrun by the mammoth Henry. I am certain that Henry outweighed her by a good 20 pounds…
However, we had made it this far and I was determined to get his nails trimmed. Oh, how I should listen to that little voice in my head. We all know the voice to which I am referring. The voice that tells us to abandon the plan, evacuate while we still have our dignity, and are still welcome in the establishment.
All systems were go. The groomer and I easily managed Henry onto the table. She raised the table for better access to his feet, which did not seem to phase Henry. One paw…done. Two, then three paws…done. And finally a sigh of relief as the fourth was completed. All was good, my misgivings were unfounded. Time to leave with a look of triumph and the sound of soft paws on the floor.
Regretably, this was not the case. The groomer took out her grinder. She just wanted to file a few spots to keep them from splitting. But of course! No problem! Please continue with my ever-so-calm, perfect specimen of dogness! And that is where it went very, very wrong.
The petite groomer started up the grinder, at which Henry’s ears perked a bit. Then she pressed it to the first nail.
The groomer must have hit a sensitive spot on Henry’s nail. He got a look on his face not unlike Ferdinand the Bull getting stung by the bee. He shot off the table, taking equipment with him. The petite groomer desperately tried to wrangle him, really looking more like she was trying to ride the panicky Henry. He bucked, she flew, and I jumped into the fray. The two of us were able to subdue him, much to the delight of the enthralled audience in the grooming area’s window.
I placed the leash on Henry, smoothed the hair from my face, took a bow to the onlookers…and left a really good tip.
We cannot go back there. Our pride won’t let us. The vet will do the trimming honors from now on, and I know Henry is glad of it. And I am certain that the petite groomer is relieved, too.