The Village Groomer
Walpole, MA 02081
May 3, 2000
I
have a girlfriend who might be a witch, and I mean that in a good way. She doesn’t travel by broom and she doesn’t
twitch her nose like Samantha on that old TV show but I’m convinced the woman
has psychic powers. She will call me to
ask, “Are you feeling any better?” when I haven’t even told her I’m sick yet!
She’s also
an astrologer but she never tells me I’m going to meet someone tall, dark and
handsome. It’s more her style to say,
“This is a karmic cleanup period. Tie
up all the loose ends in your life and find more positive ways of relating to
others.” Well, sure, but what about my
love life?
My
friend is very sensitive to my mood swings, which, by the way, could be a ride
at the Six Flags theme park. She was
visiting me the day I kicked the refrigerator because I was out of coffee
cream. She overheard me tell the cat
“If you scratch me one more time, your cat friends will be calling you
Stumpy.” She said my crankiness might
due to bad Feng Shui.
I
told her she was crazy because I hadn’t eaten Chinese food in weeks, but she
said she was referring to the Chinese Art of Placement, explaining how the home
contains Life Stations, strategically placed at each of the corners, to promote
harmony. It must be open and
uncluttered so that good energy, or Chi, can flow freely.
I had a
pile of torn up lottery tickets in my Wealth Corner and a basket of dirty
laundry in my Relationship Corner.
There was a box of Twinkies and a pile of National Enquirers in my
Health and Family Area and the bathroom was smack dab in the middle of one of
my Life Stations. “You’re flushing your
Chi down the drain over here,” she pointed out. In addition, my Helpful People Corner was so cluttered with dog
and cat knick-knacks that positive vibrations were just not happening.
I followed
her advice and soon my home had all the ambience of a doctor’s waiting room but
things at the grooming shop still needed improvement. She spent a day on the job with me and declared that for my shop,
Feng Shui was not enough. There were so
many emotions clashing like cymbals in the place that she asked if she could
stay after hours to cast a spell, creating a special little Voodoo Zone right
in front of the counter.
In this
special spot, calming influences would transform my stressed-out clients into
happy, laid-back individuals who would do anything to accommodate me, spending
a pretty penny in the process. Since
there have been far too many skunk dogs lately for Aromatherapy to be of any
help, I said “Why not?” She started
twirling herself around, speaking garbled language that sounded like Linda
Blair in the Exorcist. I flashed back
to that awful green stuff Linda spewed and hid behind the rawhide display. I’ll admit it – I was scared.
The test
came the next day when a harried young mother dropped off her Wheaten Terrier,
immediately stressing about pickup time.
“Ashley has soccer at three-thirty and Jeffrey has Scouts at four. I have to do grocery shopping and make
Brownies for the school bake sale.” She
wrung her hands and picked her toddler off her leg like he was a bug. Then all of a sudden, she stopped in her
tracks in mid-rant, a look of serenity transforming her face so she looked more
stress-free than Deepak Chopra. “What
the heck, let my husband pick the dog up.
The shuttle bus stops here!
She was
followed by another Mom whose pre-schooler we have secretly nicknamed Damien
Omen. Although we respect the child’s
genius IQ and ability to read and speak in several languages, he’s a human
wrecking ball in the retail area. As
the boy began dismantling the cat toy display, his mother smiled beatifically,
removing a muslin item from her purse.
“I thought my son’s therapist was cruel for advising me to use this
straitjacket on Tommy but I don’t know - maybe he’s on to something.” She tucked the kid’s flailing little arms
into the garment, securing it with a nice square knot, then stood back to
admire her handiwork. “This could be
the next big thing at the pre-school.”
Next came
a woman so price-conscious that she uses a pocket calculator when buying doggie
treats. When we groom her Poodle, she
pays half in cash, writing a check for the balance. “My husband would kill me for spending so much on this dog.” She took a sudden detour into the dog
apparel section, grabbing a polar fleece dog coat with a leopard collar,
hand-made and very pricey. “Try this on
Fifi and if it fits, I’ll take two, one in each color. Put it on my husband’s credit card. I’ll leave you his number.”
Then came Ms.
Perfect, a professional fitness trainer who always shows up in Lycra shorts and
tank tops, turning us green with envy just as were enjoying our coffee and
donuts. Her step was not as bouncy as
usual and her face looked weary as she paid for a bag of dog food. “Could you carry that out for me?” she
asked. “I’ve got a corn on my toe the
size of a small puppy.”
The piece de resistance came later when one
of the groomers who normally communicates by whining came out to look at the
next day’s list of dogs coming in for grooming appointments, a ritual which
usually provokes groans as she stresses herself and everybody else out,
twenty-four hours in advance. “Oh
no! Not that old Schnauzer! All he does is scream and try to bite
me! And he always pees on my
table!”
Instead,
she smiled like the poster girl for a tooth-whitening treatment. “Wow!
This is awesome! I love all
these dogs!” The serene look on her
face would have made the Dalai Llama look positively testy.
Things are
much better now. In fact, I never want
to hear another mean comment about witches.
Tonight I’m taking my girlfriend to a fine restaurant for dinner. By the way, if you’re interested in her services,
give me a call. I’m not just a
client. I’m also her agent.