A For Sale Sign at the Groomers? What Has God Wrought?

Last week, I received the most distressing news. I was taken to the groomer to have my anal glands squeezed. Ever since we started taking “No Scoot” chewable after Pocket’s glands became impacted, mine have frequently been filling requiring monthly squeezing.   Unlike Pocket, I did not have anything stuck up me — just a gentle outside squeeze and then some warm water for my butt.

If having your butt squeezed is the second worst thing that happens at the groomers you know it was an eventful trip. When we arrived, we saw a “For Sale” sign planted on their front lawn. We were hoping that it was just the neighboring house and not the business, but when we got inside, we learned the truth. The shop was closing, and the owner was retiring and their daughter, our groomer, was moving to Las Vegas. Damn that Wayne Newton.

My parents have been going to this groomer for more than 20 years.  She has always given mama's dog's perfect cuts. The groomers have Griffons in their family and know we need meticulous care.  Our beards must be rakish, not hillbilly. Our mustaches well-kept trim and fluffy.

Besides my physical appearance, I am suffering from mental anguish. One of the groomers mates her studs with my first pet parent's lollipops.  My original mom tried me as a breeding dog, but I knew right away it wasn't the life for me. I have enough trouble with the government sucking the life out of me; I don't need my offspring doing the same. My failure as a mom is my greatest achievement. It caused my first mom to realize I needed a family of my own.  A week after Foley went to the bridge Pocket had a grooming appointment. My mom, making conversation, inquired about the owner’s Griffs, and were told about the failed mother who needed a home, and ten days after the adventures of River Song (formerly Zell) began.

Periodically when I am at the groomers, I will see the dashing young Griffon who I did the unnecessary, unspeakable, unimaginable, unproductive act that leads to several weeks of discomfort, one night of extreme displeasure and the dumping of the brats before they could ignore me at the holidays.  Studly and I don't have the desire to make whoopee anymore. Now we just sit back by the watering dish laughing and asking “do you remember when?”

Our current groomer did give a recommendation for another business, one who is operating in a clean well-lit place and know how to give the particular haircuts we need. Only time will tell. But I doubt it will be people who care so much about pets and their parents that one of their workers will fly to Florida and bring a dog like me home to a grieving duo.  Those are hard to find.


With my groomer closing 2019 shaping up to be a bad year for Griffons.  I hope it proves to be a better one for humans