This Monday was my scheduled visit to Doggie Styles where Kelly reigns supreme as Master Stylist. The first to arrive was a very old, almost bald, creaky white poodle. She had to be in a special wheel chair, only lifted out for very careful grooming.
The real truth is that I dislike visiting Doggie Styles. Not because Kelly isn't a Great Groomer--she is! Not because the decor is rather shabby chic--it is, but coming from my household who am I to complain. But for some reason, once I even get wind of the visit--usually the evening before since Maman et Papa start behaving in a guilty manner--I begin to shiver uncontrollably. I do sleep through the night, but morning always brings that dread knowledge.
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Luckily once there I have my own spot picked out; it's very close to the door, the Way Out. When Kelly walks by I scoot back and try to make myself as small as possible. However, there has never been a visit during which Kelly didn't hunt me down and lift me up to the Table. There, tethered and alone, with all eyes on me, I'm shorn, primped, cleaned and last but not least, the manicure.
My question for Kelly: how could you have entered this dark profession. The strange contradiction is that Maman et Papa fervently hope that Kelly will have a long, distinguished career as a dog groomer and that she will not be lured away by some Big City salon in New York, London or Paris.
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