The Snift Test

There are few things in life that fill me with quite as much dread as taking the Boyz to the groomer.

The dread begins before we leave the driveway because the Boyz do not share it. To them, getting into the car means one thing.

Dog park.

They pile in with the sort of optimism available only to dogs and people who have never been lied to before. Morgan takes up his position. Captain watches the road. Both are vibrating with anticipation.

I know where we’re going.

There was a time when I had rather grand expectations of the kind of dog parent I would become. The Boyz would be groomed every three weeks. Regularly. Professionally. They would move through the world as magnificent golden beasts, handsome and dandy, coats brushed and nails trimmed, leaving strangers to wonder what sort of disciplined man maintained animals of such obvious distinction.

This lasted until they were about one.

The current grooming schedule is based on smell.

I am not proud of this. I am merely practical. Everything associated with two large dogs costs roughly twice what it seems like it ought to cost, and getting two excited 85-pound golden retrievers through the front door of what was, moments earlier, a calm business establishment requires the logistics of a livestock operation.

So we use the sniff test.

Eventually there comes a morning when I lean toward Captain, inhale cautiously and think, Well.

Morgan generally confirms the finding.

Appointments are made.

The drive itself is pleasant. The Boyz remain convinced we are headed somewhere wonderful until I make the final turn into the groomer’s parking lot.

Then they know.

There is a moment when their excitement meets my dread and all three of us understand that somebody in the car has been dishonest.

Getting through the front door is the first event.

Captain immediately goes full CSI, determined to identify every dog, cat and possibly squirrel that has passed through the building during the previous two months. Morgan, confident that his brother will eventually file a complete report, heads directly for the receptionist.

Morgan likes people.

More precisely, Morgan likes people’s laps.

The receptionist always treats the arrival of 85 pounds of stinky golden retriever as delightful.

“Oh, hello, Morgan!”

I admire her professionalism.

I assume somewhere inside her another voice is saying, Oh shit. Not them again.

Meanwhile, I am doing my best Gumby imitation in the middle of the lobby while two oxen that bark pull in opposite directions.

Eventually comes the phrase I have learned to fear.

“We’ll be right with you.”

I have always regarded this the same way I regard restaurant reservations. You knew I was coming. You told me when to arrive. As far as I’m concerned, my table should be ready and somebody should be standing beside it holding a flask of still water.

Jimmy Kelly’s has never subscribed to this theory. Neither does the groomer. It took several visits before I discovered that absent-mindedly dropping the leash tethering one half of the chaos tends to shorten the wait considerably.

Eventually, after a week lasting approximately ten minutes, Groomer Number One appears. I assume there was some discussion in the back. Possibly straws.

“Morgan?”

Morgan is escorted toward the grooming room, although “escorted” suggests considerably more consent than is involved.

Then the door closes behind him.

Captain sees his brother vanish.

This changes everything.

Whatever disagreements the Boyz may have at home, whatever bones have been stolen or preferred sleeping spots occupied, Captain will not stand idly by while his brother is dragged through a mysterious doorway by strangers.

He launches the rescue mission.

It is heroic.

It is also extremely painful if you happen to be holding the leash.

Captain throws himself toward the door Morgan disappeared behind while I attempt to explain that Morgan is fine, which Captain quite reasonably regards as something a collaborator would say.

Eventually Groomer Number Two appears to collect him.

Captain is then dragged through the same vanishing-dog portal, presumably convinced until the final moment that he is going in after his brother.

And suddenly the lobby is quiet.

There are usually a few employees still standing around. Sometimes another customer. Possibly a small dog staring at me. Judging me.

I straighten myself up. Gather the leashes. Catch my breath.

There seems as though there ought to be something more to say after what everyone has just witnessed, some explanation for the noise and the investigation and Morgan’s lap visit and Captain’s attempted breach of the grooming room.

But I never have one.

So I give them my best John Belushi after smashing the kid’s guitar on the Animal House staircase.

“Sorry.”

Three hours later I come back.

The door opens and out come two magnificent golden beasts, handsome and dandy, coats brushed, nails trimmed, smelling like whatever wonderful substance professional groomers possess that I cannot reproduce at home.

Exactly the dogs I always imagined I would have.

And for the next few weeks, I am exactly the dog parent I always imagined I would be.

Then one morning I lean toward Captain and inhale.

Well.