Tuesday, 19 July 2011
As I've mentioned before, we have a little dog, a Bichon-Frise.
One of the reasons we (actually, it was my Beloved who chose the little shit-machine, I'm responsible for shit-collection and walking duties) chose this type of dog was that it has a very tightly curled coat, almost like wool, that doesn't shed. But it also means that fairly often we need to get the little ankle biter shorn, as the coat builds up until he takes on the dimensions of a bloated hyperthyroid sheep.
So today we took it down to the local (Waiwhetu) dog-barber, where for the princely sum of $65 it had its coat reduced to a millimetric fuzz. I should also point out that MY haircut costs never rise over $10. Easy to see who's the boss, eh.
Now all of this is bad enough, but the icing on the bloody cake was when we collected the little defecating device 2 hours later.Unbeknowest to me, my Beloved had come prepared, and as we started to leave the canine barber shop, she stopped, and from the depths of her capacious handbag she produced a hand knitted cardigan which she had made for the bloody thing.
The ignominy of it.
The Inhumanity of it .
Walking a small dog which was wearing a Fair-Isle style hand knitted cardigan along the main road.
I couldn't meet the eyes of other pedestrians, I felt demeaned and used.
Later on I felt so proud. I managed to kick the bloody thing after it stopped to sniff at a lampost.
I showed it who's boss.