Tango, my little Maltese/Yorkie/something mix, didn’t look right, possibly because he hadn’t seen the groomer in four months. When she gets through with him, every hair on his little 9-pound body aligns in rows so precise he could join the Marines. But yesterday, he looked more like a drummer in a reggae band.
Tango has a magic coat. If it’s not brushed every 10 minutes, it revolts. Two hairs from his outer coat will join up with a couple of cottony friends from his undercoat to form a dangerous, unstable coalition called a mat. A mat is a snarled clump that looks like something you pulled out of a shower drain and glued on the dog.
It only takes one mat to ignite a chain reaction of contagious knots, which can consume your dog overnight like kudzu. It’s ironic that manufacturers will caution us against holding a chainsaw by the moving side and putting close friends in the washing machine, but Tango came with no warning labels. Not even “Professional Cleaning Recommended.”
Dog grooming has evolved from a simple bath and clip. Now it’s a sport. During extreme competitions, you’ll see groomers sculpt unsuspecting poodles into camels, roller derby queens, zebras, lions—you name it. The base dog is usually white, which is easiest to dye green, pink, orange, purple or all of the above. Then the groomers go in with clippers and transform the original dog into something that resembles a shrub at Disney World. It’s amazing. Weird, but amazing.
I’m making 2015 my year to nix frivolous spending, so that means DIY grooming. While this commitment required an initial investment in professional clippers that cost more than my last lawn mower, I figured they’d pay for themselves in no time. All the YouTube videos made canine clipping look pretty easy, except for one detail they omitted: You’ll need six friends to hold the dog still.
Without those nice restraints the pros have, dog grooming becomes a contact sport. When Tango sees me approach with scissors, he likes to run under the couch where he can laugh at the large, less-agile predator somersaulting over the coffee table. But I lurched under there and got my first snip. Three hours later, the battle ended in a spare bedroom, where I pronounced him “groomed.”
My daughter noticed my work right away.
“Ooooh nooo! You poor, sweet boy,” she cried, bending down to caress Tango in his hour of need. “Did Mom weed whack you? She used to do that to me.”
Here it comes. The How My Mother’s Haircuts Landed Me in Therapy Saga: Part 16.
I’ll admit his coat was a tad uneven and there were a few bald spots, but it was my first try. So we went back to the groomer for a little touch‑up.
“Did you do this?” she asked, grabbing Tango and waving her shears at me. “This is animal cruelty. Now this poor baby has to have a summer cut in the middle of winter. If you ‘help’ me again, I’ll charge you double.”
Now that’s my idea of a warning label.
Jan A. Igoe will probably keep writing, since a career as an extreme dog groomer looks iffy. If you’re interested, she has some lovely clippers for sale. Stay in touch by email.