The Doggy Diaries

Part Two: Out of The Groomer into the Frying Pan

Ok first off, loyal readers...you guys either failed to notice, or failed to point out that the first installment of "The Doggy Diaries" was actually "The Doggy Dairies." Come on guys! I was errrrr, testing you. Did you think we were going to write about Rip's love of milk?! Come on, stay with me. It's corrected now, you all fail. Moving on.

Well, I was really struggling to come up with something to write for this second installment, and then the Rip-ster went and solved it for me. Today was Ripken's first trip to the groomer. After years of seeing our childhood dogs being traumatized by having their nails clipped, and all too familiar knowledge of Kwik Stop, it was just easier to pay someone to take care of it for us. It was a very painless process, for me at least. The location is close to the house, and I can drop off my saber-nailed, slightly ripe dog at lunch and pick up a spiffy almost new pup, with nails that no longer tippy-tap on the hardwoods right after work. I should have known it was too good to be true!
When we got home, Ripken was unusually restless. I figured it was because he was wondering where Dad was, and opened the door when he started barking at it. I then sat down to come up with what I was going to write for my second edition of the Diaries. It was only the second week and already I was struggling with something interesting to tell you guys about Ripken. Time elapses, I think nothing of it. Next thing I know, I call Ripken in from the yard and he tears in like he's being chased by a pack of wild cats (not out of the question in our neighborhood). At first I was enthused over his eager obedience to our newly learned commands. But upon closer inspection, its more likely because he knew he was paw deep in trouble. He was muddy. Not just muddy, but an unprecedented level of muddiness caked his paws. He NEVER does this, or should I say, had never done this. I know, I know. He's a Beagle. Beagle's dig. I get it. But he decides to discover this gene on the day he first goes to the groomer? Today of all days, he chooses to go dig in the muddy yard like he's on the scent of the Holy Grail? Plus does he HAVE to jump on my favorite H&M skirt, quickly followed by the seen-better-days couch. Seriously Ripken? Today? Fresh from the groomer? No Dad to help me out? Can't you cut your Mom some slack?