Mystical rites
Whew. Just finished what feels like some kind of mystical rite of water-process mummification: I brined Big Bird, tied up the plastic trash-bags around her, and put her in the ice-chest sarcophagus in the garage, with the lid weighted down with old paint-cans. Got the dog dry-cleaned. Now it's time to make gravy-base and sauter veggies for the dressing. I work tomorrow night - leave the house 10 am, get home 11 pm - so everything has to be pretty much set up to rock 'n' roll by tonight.
And of course the nice folks at the grooming parlor insisted on giving Damsel a hair-bow AND a foofey clown-collar around her neck. I took these off her before the cats could see them and laugh. (Not that she's in the slightest sensetive about what she looks like. She's perfectly happy being clipped in the summer, whereas poor Nicky - her elderly husband when I first got her - would go hide after he was clipped, he was so embarassed).
Nicky was like any old guy who suddenly acquires a pretty young thing for a companion. She'd mount him and he'd just lie there smiling: "Anything you say, dearest..." She used to try to mount the cats, too.
And of course the nice folks at the grooming parlor insisted on giving Damsel a hair-bow AND a foofey clown-collar around her neck. I took these off her before the cats could see them and laugh. (Not that she's in the slightest sensetive about what she looks like. She's perfectly happy being clipped in the summer, whereas poor Nicky - her elderly husband when I first got her - would go hide after he was clipped, he was so embarassed).
Nicky was like any old guy who suddenly acquires a pretty young thing for a companion. She'd mount him and he'd just lie there smiling: "Anything you say, dearest..." She used to try to mount the cats, too.
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