I kneel in front of the kennel that holds my first dog of the day. Sweetie, an Afghan Hound, peers out from a rear corner,where she’s arranged her reddishbrown body into a deceptively small heap.Her large eyes glow with the iridescence of glaucoma. I’m nearly three months and 100 dogs into grooming school and you’d think I’d no longer be nervous, but my trembling hands give me away as I fumble with the kennel’s latch. I wonder if Sweetie notices? An index card clipped to the kennel lists her age as 14 on her first visit nearly a year ago. It also says she’s deaf. I’ll just have to let my hands do the talking, I think as I reach in and slip a blue nylon leash around her neck and gently coax her out of the kennel.
Like many of the dogs I’ve groomed during my time as a student, Sweetie seems nervous as we cross the brightly lit classroom, passing an overweight Lab and a pair of sablecolored Sheltie sisters and side-stepping to avoid a huge Akita.When I gather her willowy body into my arms to lift her onto my table, I’m surprised by how light she is. I set her down and her toenails click as she scrabbles for purchase on the pebbly surface. Tethered to a table high in the air, she’s unsure. Conspicuous. In full view. Just like I feel most days amidst my mostly younger classmates.
Sweetie crouches into a “down” position, shaking like a leaf. “It’s okay, girl.” Forgetting she can’t hear, I reassure her over the din of barking dogs and fussing groomers as I review the instructions: Sweetie/Afghan Hound/4- strip/Smooth Crown/Clean Face.
I run my fingers through the soft, ruffled fur between her ears that gives her a distinct resemblance to Woodstock, Snoopy’s little bird friend. I continue petting her while waiting for her initial wave of fear to pass, taking a few deep breaths to calm myself as well. Spread out along the countertop behind me is my array of equipment: various styles of combs and brushes, an undercoat rake, a shedding blade, a stripping knife, two types of nail cutters, several pairs of gleaming stainless-steel scissors, and two types of motorized clippers with a wide assortment of clipper blades and guard combs—all razor-sharp blades and pointed teeth, all menacing-looking to various degrees. Please don’t let me hurt this dog, I think for the thousandth time since beginning grooming school. My mantra for the duration.
When she stops shaking, we begin. I clean the insides of her ears and clip her nails. Then, bracing one of her legs at a time firmly between my elbow and rib cage, I carefully remove the hair from the bottom of each foot with my clipper, gently working it into the V of the large pad at the back of each paw to remove the excess hair that traps dirt and debris.Although thin, for an old dog, Sweetie stands well.
I find myself trying to imagine each dog’s story. Some are puppies, in for the first time. Others come from rescue groups. A few have standing monthly appointments.Running my hands over Sweetie to check for troublesome irritations or growths, I wonder about the circumstances of this dog—a now 15-year-old Afghan whose first grooming at the school came just a year ago. The search turns up a single wart on her throat and some matted fur behind each ear. But those jutting hipbones! The delicate tendons running down the backs of her legs! You’ll just have to be extra careful, I tell myself as I attach the #4-blade to my clipper.
Eyes glued to Sweetie’s thin body, I run the buzzing clipper through her inch-long fur in long strokes.Keeping her skin pulled taut with my free hand, I clip down her back and over her rib cage, all the while envisioning an Afghan in full coat—arguably the glamour girl of the canine world. I picture luxuriant locks cascading from a long-limbed frame as small mounds of red-brown hair fall soundlessly to the table.We’re taught not to second-guess the owners —our clients—but sometimes that’s hard.