The holidays are fast approaching and with them the party season. If I'm lucky enough to get away from my grooming table and I don't fall asleep standing up, I just might accept a few invitations this year. For most of the population, 'tis the season to be jolly but for postal employees, department store clerks and dog groomers, 'tis the season to conduct first-hand research on just how much sleep deprivation the human body can endure. Please don't lecture me on my health habits. I know those Christmas sugar cookies, homemade brownies and gaily wrapped chocolates our customers bring in do not constitute a nourishing diet and I don't usually drink more than five cups of coffee before noon. I'll get back into veggies once the New Year rolls around. I'll exercise, meditate, clean my closets and read War and Peace too. But this year, when I meet new people at the neighbor's tree-trimming party or my sister's open house, I may not tell them what I do for a living. Now, before Dottie Walin gives me a pep talk to boost my sagging self-esteem, I must assure our beloved Grandma Groomer that I am professional and I am proud.
It's just that I'm tired of being introduced as a groomer and having the conversation turn immediately to - you guessed it - pet problems. When you're introduced to a dentist, do you open your mouth and show him your cavities? Do you ask the psychotherapist you just met what you should get your inner child for Christmas? Or that auto repair fellow to pop out into the driveway and give a listen to your muffler? Moments after I was introduced to one woman at a holiday gathering last year, she unloaded upon my sequined shoulders a torrent of complaints about her current groomer and how incompetently she had treated Gretel, her black miniature Schnauzer. "Do you know she charged me for a medicated bath and I never even asked for it? Two weeks later, my poor little angel was covered with flakes! As I said to my husband, that groomer must have left soap in the coat." As I munched my Swedish Meatballs, I gently informed her the dog probably suffered from dry skin, but she was faster than a greyhound with her surefire home remedy. I think she expected me to take notes. "I just poured a bottle of baby oil over little Gretel and added lots of corn oil to her food." As I tried to escape, claiming I just had to have more marvelous meatballs, she grabbed my sleeve. Did I know of a product to remove oil stains from an Oriental carpet? And what was the best remedy for a dog with the runs?
Against my better judgment, I went to a neighbor's giftware party although I hate those situations where you pretend to act festive while being held hostage in somebody's living room. When she heard I was a groomer, the cheerful demonstrator's painted-on smile faded as she held her crystal cake stand aloft. "Tell me, why does my Golden Retriever chew her paw?", she demanded. "Is my dog neurotic? Is this some weird kind of sado-masochism? Where have I failed?" At a church-sponsored Christmas bazaar, a customer zeroed in on me as I picked over the pine cone wreaths. "Why is my dog still scratching? After she left your shop last fall, she was scratching again in a week. I hate to tell you this, but I don't think you got all her fleas," she hollered from across the craft table. "Or maybe she picked them up when she was with you." I gave her the bad news about fleas wintering over in her home but by then all the other shoppers had abandoned their hand-crocheted holiday toilet paper covers and beat a hasty retreat.
At my nephew's holiday concert, I congratulated the music teacher as I was introduced, but before I could tell him how much I enjoyed the rap version of Silent Night, he buttonholed me: "Why does my cocker spaniel always make a puddle the minute I come home? Is she punishing me for all the time I've been spending in rehearsal? Could she be doing this for spite?" At a Christmas reunion of my camping buddies, one friend's daughter regaled me with the proud announcement of her litter of Christmas puppies. "My springer mated with the collie next door. It was so cute how he always came over to visit her when she was tied out in the yard. By the way, do you know of anyone who wants a puppy?" I know my statistics on pet overpopulation cast a pall over the festivities but I couldn't let this one pass. So what if I don't get invited back next year. I had just settled on the sofa to nibble my stuffed mushrooms at my cousin's New Year's Eve bash when Watson, her bulldog, climbed up to join me. Suddenly there was the sound of air escaping from a balloon as Watson shifted his weight to his other hip, heaving a sigh of contentment and relief as he snuggled up against me. As an invisible cloud settled over the room, my cousin demanded, "Kathy, isn't there anything we can do about this gas problem?" Conversation ceased as all eyes, including Watson's, swung in my direction. Guests coughed and fanned themselves, then claimed to be heading outside for a cigarette although I knew for a fact most of them didn't smoke.
It's not that I'm squeamish but I've decided to adopt a "Don't Ask - Don't Tell" policy for all future weddings, wakes, baby showers and bar mitzvahs as well as holiday celebrations. I know it's not foolproof. No doubt I'll be pushing my grand- daughter's stroller through the park and see some poor dog being walked who keeps stopping every few steps to scoot his bum along the cement walkway. Without even thinking, I'll pipe up, "When was the last time he had his anal glands checked?" Next Spring, I've agreed to join my sister in chaperoning my nephew's trip to Washington, D.C. One of the highlights will be a tour of the White House, she told me. I should be excited but I'm already living in fear of that all-too-familiar scenario. If I should have the honor of meeting our President, he'll hear I'm a groomer and sidle up to me to ask my advice on his own pet problem. "We're having trouble with Socks," he'll confide in that smooth Arkansas drawl. "We're thinking of barring him from the Oval Office because of his hairball problem. My wife's an expert on investments and health care and everybody knows she can track me down better than my granddaddy's blue tick hound, but this problem is too much for her. Why, it's downright embarrassing when we're hosting foreign heads of state," he'll continue. "As you can imagine, something like this could have international repercussions."
Recalling George Bush's similar problem a few years ago at that state dinner in Japan, of course I'll know exactly what he's talking about. Hey, I'm every bit as patriotic as the next person. Just this once, in the national interest, I'll waive my new policy and give him my advice. The way I see it, if I don't get hysterical, I could be historical.