and today there were tears

Oh, the drama.

Today, much like most any other day, we had our fair share of tears.

When we didn't get the waffle we wanted, there were tears.  When we didn't get to sit by cousin Kalli to eat?  Tears.  When Mom came home from town to find spaghetti noodles and Parmesan cheese sailing haphazardly through the air and landing on every available surface in the kitchen? 

Believe you me, there were tears.

But the biggest, saddest tears?  They were reserved for this guy.

Buddy was due for a haircut.  Past due, actually. 

I admit he had gotten quite shaggy, but I can explain why I waited so long. The last cut was a little bit of a fiasco.  You see, the problem is that we have a poodle who we don't really like to look like a poodle. 

First of all, let me just say we (as in Courtney and I) never even wanted a dog, let alone a poodle.  But then Santa stepped in and everything went south.  I mean north- extremely north. . .(c'mon, who can turn down the North Pole?)  If we were going to agree to the whole deal, we wanted a dog that didn't shed.  Who would be easy to train.  And nice.  The word on the street?  Get a poodle.

We were delighted when we found the best of both worlds.  A non-shedding, lovable little guy who didn't look a bit like a poodle.  Everywhere we went, we were corrected.  "That's not a poodle".  And that's just the way we liked it.

  

Remember when he looked like this?   

The first cut went fairly well.  Dog experts everywhere told me to tell the trimmer (or do I call her a dog stylist?) that we wanted a "puppy cut" or a "teddy bear cut".  I obediently relayed the above information, and he came out of the salon looking like a cleaner, slightly shorter haired version of Buddy. 

So, feeling confident in my dog/stylist communication I approached the next haircut the same.  However, when we picked him up from his little appointment he was. . .well, lets just say he looked like a poodle.  Ryenne took one look at him and said, "ummmm, why does he have a ball on his head?"  After a short deliberation, the girls came to the conclusion that his new haircut just plain "freaked" them out. 

Okay.

I decided to do a bit of research.  I asked around a little bit more.  (Oh, the things I never thought I'd find myself doing.)  After doing so, I decided to try a new doggy stylist.  Never hurts to shop around, eh? 

The appointment was today at 12:00 noon.  I was very clear from the get-go, going into some detail about the whole poodle haircut/freaking the girls out episode.  Long and shaggy.  That was the look we were after, I explained.

So this is what we got.  I knew I was in trouble when she said something like, "it was just like shearing a sheep."

Claire was waiting in the car, and when I climbed in with this. . .uh, poodle, she started laughing.  The whole way home she sang "Buddy.  Funny.  Buddy.  Funny." from the back seat.

In Miss Stylist's defense, it seems the whole thing is entirely our fault.  Turns out we are somewhat neglectful.  A poodle isn't supposed to run wildly through a pasture of June grass, you know.  Or fetch dead fish out of the canal.  Or. . well anyway.  Most dogs of this sort are not typically bounding through the countryside.  I am now aware that most poodles typically waltz out of the back door, discreetly use the potty, after which they should be quickly whisked back into the castle.

Guess we'll have to work on that. 

And eight weeks between haircuts?  Gasp!  Four to six weeks at most, please. 


While Claire thought the whole thing hysterical, the other girls weren't so amused.  I prepared for the worst when I opened the door and let him run in. 

The first thing I heard was Courtney let out a big laugh and yell, "Look!  It's a rat!"

And then?  Tears.  From the peanut gallery. Weeping, wailing, and crocodile tears.  The whole works.  And a blue, polka dot bow?  Talk about adding insult to injury.

Poor guy.  As if a bad hair day isn't enough.  Try having one when you live in a house full of girls.





For the record, it's all part of the routine. 

The tears, I mean.

Crying over waffles?  Just fine.  Angry mommies and seating arrangements gone bad?  Expected.  Bad doggy hair day?  Bring out the Kleenex.

An absolute, certifiable disaster.

I can't wait til prom night.