Please stop with the blood. Please? I’m a fainter…
While the Hub and I were away last weekend Grady stayed at the spa. We call it the spa because he seriously loves it. You know how when you pick your dog up from the kennel (if you have a dog) and he runs to you after not seeing you for a few days, and he jumps on you and loves you and wants to hang out? Yeah. Not Grady. When they bring him around the corner, and I scootch down to say hi, he acts all nonchalant. About me. The man who loves him and houses him and feeds him and pays the vet.
Where is the love, you said was mine, all mine, till the end of time, was it just a lie?
We picked Gradster up from the kennel on Sunday afternoon. He was all pretty as a picture from the grooming and the playing with other dogs and the freedom from the oppressive parents. The groomers always do a great job there, too. Except this time, they forgot to trim his nails. Oh, poop.
Grady likes to have his nails trimmed like you like to have a fresh papercut on your eyeball. (Wait, what? …Ew!) When I got home from work yesterday I sat down to say hello to my little pooch, and he sauntered over to say hello, his nails catching in the (very expensive) new carpet that we had installed 6 months ago. I screwed my courage to the sticking place and went to the kitchen to get the nail clippers. As I walked back to the living room, Grady saw me and, thinking it was play time, wagged his little tail. Then, he saw the clippers I was unsuccessfully hiding in my hand. His tail shot down to hide. He then ran from me. He ran so far away. He ran upstairs. He ran around the dining room table. He finally ran into a corner (Ha!) and I caught him.
I sat him in my lap, and tried to clip a nail. He wasn’t having any of that. He twisted and turned and whined and whimpered. I took him to our little downstairs bathroom and sat on the floor with him. I tried again. And, again he wept and cajoled and practically pulled his little leg out of it’s socket trying to get away from me. It was exhausting for the both of us. I finally got his front paws done. And then I noticed a little dot of red on the floor. I had, apparently, nicked the quick of one of his nails. I thought – how bad could it be? I checked the nail clipping that I had taken off that toe – there was a microscopic dot where I had nicked the quick. Microscopic, I tell you!
And yet, despite the microsopicosity, the nick started to bleed like a fountain at the Bellagio. Within minutes, it looked like a triple murder had happened in the bathroom. I expected Nick Stokes to start (sexily) questioning me about my whereabouts at any second.
When I finally let Grady go (because the bleeding had stopped) and cleaned the floor, he had gone into the living room (new carpet) and started licking the nail. Which made it bleed again. All over the carpet and our couch. Stop? Please?
I finally ended up having to hold him for 45 minutes, holding a wet cloth over his paw. He was not amused. As evidenced by him turning his head like an owl so as not to catch sight of his tormenter.
For the rest of the evening I received the silent treatment from Grady. He wouldn’t even look at me if I was holding a peanut butter filled Kong and asking him if he wanted to go visit Bach (his best friend). Nope. He just sat precariously on Daddy 1’s legs as far from me as he could get. I, of course, took this opportunity to shoot a couple pictures. Sell it, pouter!
Notice the glare of hatred in this one… hee!