Winter is a tricky time for me and Wensley.  Wensley loves to play in the snow, but because Yorkshire Terriers have hair instead of fur, they don’t have a lot of insulation from the cold.  Also, for some reason, snow tends to stick to them and clump up in these weird ice balls that are really difficult to remove.  We don’t have a lot of snow right now, but these are some photos I took a few winters ago.

 

Once this happens, there are only a few options for ice ball removal.  One is a warm bath, but I don’t like to do that.  He’s already cold at this point.  It seems like a bad idea to get him wet.  The next option is the hair drier.  But Wensley is afraid of the hair drier, and I end up feeling like a prison guard at the Tower of London, torturing an informant.  The third and regrettably the simplest option, is to just let him romp around the apartment as the ice slowly melts into various puddles on my new wood floor.

I like to let his hair grow long in the winter to give him some defense against the cold, but I decided that this year I would try something different.  I took him to the groomer yesterday and asked if they would shave his legs but leave the rest as long as possible.  It’s counterintuitive, but  figured his legs are going to be cold in the snow no matter what.  Maybe if the hair is short he won’t get snow barnacles and he can warm up faster. 

I thought, “What I have been doing isn’t working; why not give something else a try?”

But I forgot about one thing.  Groomers.  If there is one thing about being the owner of a small dog that I find unbearably obnoxious, it is dealing with groomers.  I once had a conversation with a groomer who gave Wensley a disapproving look, which she then transferred to me before informing me, “Yorkshire terriers are supposed to have pointy ears.”  She said it with that tone of voice that you use when you tell someone, “You’re doing it wrong.”

“He came that way,” I replied.  But she kept giving me that look, as if that wasn’t a proper explanation.  As if I was supposed to get the dog in for some plastic surgery to correct his floppy bunny ears.

It isn’t the groomers’ fault, I suppose.  They are trained to do standard dog cuts like they do in dog shows.  And that’s what a lot of people expect.  Especially small dog people.

For instance: my sister’s mother-in-law has a Bischon Frise named Sugar who – every six weeks or so – gets carted on an 80 mile round trip car ride to the trained groomer to get his fancy show dog cut.  The standard Bischon cut makes the dog’s head look like a snow globe, presumably so that the dog and the standard Bischon owner can have matching old white-lady froes.

Here is a photo of one who obviously thinking, “Kill me, please.”

Somewhere in there is a dog who just wants to sniff an anus and take a nap.

Sugar is not a show dog.  Sugar rarely leaves the house, except for the occasional ride in the Lexus.  But it’s important to my sister’s in-laws that he matches the furniture and gets the “best” treatment possible.  And that’s fine.  Whatever works for them.

But unfortunately for me, these are the types of clients that groomers cater to.  I assume they have been abused by enough posh Bischon owners that they are terrified of botching another cut and catching hell for it.

Which is why I wasn’t able to get my dog’s legs shaved.

I dropped him off yesterday morning at a groomer in North Salt Lake, which is ridiculously far away from my apartment.  But I book him there when I travel for work because it is closer to the airport than the other places.  And they already have his medical records.  Besides, after his hair cut, they let him play with the other dogs instead of keeping him in a cage like some groomers do, so it works out for Wensley.  But when I went back after work (nine hours later), they brought him out and his hair hadn’t been cut.

The groomer handed him to me and said, “I gave him a bath and brushed it out, but this was the best I could do.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.  “He looks the same.”

“Well, yeah,” she said.  “You said to leave it as long as possible.”

“I know… I meant on his body.  I wanted you to give him a trim though.  And shave his legs…”

“Oh, I can’t do that,” she said.

“You can’t?” I asked, trying to imagine how this could be physically impossible.  “Why not?”

“Because.  He would look like a turtle.”

I didn’t respond.  I just collected my dog and paid for his “bath.”  And then I went home.  But here’s the thing.  He wouldn’t look like a turtle.  He would look like a dog, sleeping on a couch.

This is how he looked this morning, napping in the warm spot I just left in bed, right before I went to work.

And here is a photo of a Yorkshire terrier sporting a standard show cut, which I like to call “The Cousin It.”

I see this, and I want to round-up the whole show dog industry and kick it in the dick.

Wensley is not a show dog.  He is not an accessory.  He doesn’t have the patience to stay in a purse or sit on a satin pillow and match furniture.  And I don’t want him to.  I want him to be a dog and play in the snow.  I want him to romp with the twins and get dirty at the dog park.  But I would also like for him to stay warm while enjoying himself.

I should take him back and insist that they just do what I asked.  Or I could get an electric razor and try to do it myself.  Somehow I suspect that this will not be good for Wensley’s and my relationship, however.  But then there is a third – and regrettably a simpler – option.  I could always buy Wensley a set of these.  Maybe that’s what I should do.

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