We don't want to go there, down that long, dark corridor where sharp-fanged monsters lurk in every crevice, where shrill, maniacal laughter can be heard in the distance. It's the place where groomers keep memories of their darkest hours. Let's call it Nightmare City.
This is where we keep our most shameful secrets. We're not talking about nicked quicks or little boo-boos, we're talking Tales from the Crypt. If we've been in this business long enough, most of us have a few, although some will never admit it: The dog that ran out the front door your first year in grooming , remember? It took eight hours and a sheriff's posse to get him back. Or that elderly beagle whose tearful owners told you they were so glad dear old Sammy breathed his last on your grooming table because they couldn't bear to "put him to sleep."
I hate to be a prophetess of doom, but if you stick around this profession long enough, you'll probably experience a few ghoulish nightmares yourself. Let me share one of mine. It was the week before Easter and business was off the wall.My star groomer had come down with the flu. Each morning I dreaded the ringing of the phone; it was Mary again, sounding that much closer to death's door.
Two dogs that day were white toy poodles, but it was hard to tell. The one called Sunshine looked like a raggedy bathmat. The other, Queenie, gave off an odor which made my eyes water when I took her from her owner, Sonny Bresnahan, a white-haired man whose bulbous red nose gave evidence of his favorite pastime, knocking 'em back with the boys at one of his favorite watering holes. "Here's my little Queenie, Cassie," he boomed. "Kathy," I corrected him. He never got my name right. "Last time you shaved her buck naked and I caught hell from the wife when I got home," he said. "Well, she's just as matted this time," I told him. "I'm afraid I'll have to cut her short again." His florid face looked sadder than a bloodhound. "Okay," he sighed, "but I'll be in the doghouse again, Katie."
I had also taken Sunshine from her lovely owner, Dorothy Jordan, that morning. "My daughter Amy has been brushing her but I'm afraid she hasn't done a very good job," she apologized. I had to agree; the dog's coat could have passed for a bulletproof vest.
I gave both poodles tasseled ears. When they were done, their little bodies had only a quarter-inch of white fuzz but I was pleased at their neatly-rounded topknots and pom tails.
Sonny returned that evening, even more red-faced and affable than before. I was trimming a Scottie's nails, testing both my reflexes and my upper body strength. "There's my little baby now!", Sonny bellowed. When my bather saw the poodle jumping up and down, her tail wagging like a propeller, she brought it to Sonny and rang the register as dog and owner happily embraced.
The last pickup was Dorothy Jordan, accompanied by six-year old Amy whose face was radiant. "I'll get your Sunshine," I smiled. When I looked into the cubby at the remaining poodle, my heart sank. The small face looking back at me belonged to Queenie.
Breathing became difficult but I had to explain the inexcusable. "They looked just alike," I mumbled. Amy's face dissolved into a puddle of tears. I grabbed Sonny's record card and dialed his number, smiling bravely.
"We're sorry," said that obnoxious nasal recording. "The number you have dialed has been changed. The new number is unpublished, at the customer's request." Click.
I swallowed my growing sense of panic as mother and daughter watched me as one would view a trapped insect writhing in its death throes. I called the operator and explained my plight. "I'm sorry, Ma'am, but I still cannot give you that number," she replied in a perfect monotone. "However, I will ring it for you and ask the party to return your call."
The child was into her sixth Kleenex when the phone finally rang. It was not Sonny but Nora Nasal again. "I'm afraid there is no answer at that number, Ma'am," she reported. "I will try again later." Later, I thought, my hopes dashed. Where the heck was Sonny? Did he stop for a few pops on the way home? Was little Sunshine sitting in the car outside some honky-tonk at this very moment? When he got home and let her out to go tinkle, would she take off for parts unknown?
I called the police in Sonny's town and asked for directions to his house. No problem, said the sergeant. It seems they knew him well. "I'll deliver Queenie home to her folks and I'll pick up Sunshine and bring her to you," I told the Jordans. "I want my Sunshine," Amy wailed as her mother dragged her out the door.
Queenie snuggled beside me as we flew over the roads. "Please, God, let her be there," I prayed as the poodle fixed me with a beady-eyed stare.
Sonny's wife Peggy answered the door, looking terribly confused. "I thought Sonny brought her home already," she said, scratching her frizzy yellow hair. I explained the situation, quickly cutting to the chase. "Where is the other dog?", I asked.
"Sonny put her in the kitchen," Peggy said, leading me to the living room where Sonny reclined in his armchair, watching bowling on TV. He roared with laughter when he heard the story, then invited me to join them for a drink.
"We should have known it wasn't Queenie," Peggy whined. "The first thing that other dog did was piddle all over my new carpet."
When I pulled into the driveway at the Jordan home, I felt like the driver of the Publishers Clearing House Prize Patrol Van as I watched the hugging, the kissing, the tears.
In the space of a few hours, I had gone from a bumbler to a heroine, and aged at least ten years. Exhausted, I related the tale to my husband when I got home.
"So Sonny never realized it wasn't his dog," David said, incredulous. "What did he say when you finally straightened it out?"
"Oh, he thanked me profusely for bringing Queenie home," I answered. "Then he said, 'Hey, next time, don't cut her so short, okay, Carrie'?"