Peaches, the Dog, Is Down on Her Luck
Peaches has run into a little hard luck. Actually, quite a bit. I took her to her friend Beverly at the Silver Poodle dog grooming studio. Beverly called me back and said she would have to strip Peaches. Which means she would have to shave her.
Normally, Peaches has peach- and butterscotch-colored fur, which she tosses back over her forehead. It is wavy and long, so long that the fur on her ears overlaps her lovely whiskers. She looks as if she has an entire hat and face mask of ostrich tips. The fur on her body flows luxuriantly and long, and her rear end is covered with bronze ruffles, making her look like the front line of a can-can extravaganza.
She has been on her “fit and trim” diet now for two weeks and I sometimes think the veterinarian confused her luxuriant Farrah Fawcett coiffure with fat because it envelops her so.
It has been my custom to brush her each day, but she does not care for the brush with the sharp wire bristles, nor would I. She prefers a nice boar’s bristle brush, made in England and suitable for smoothing the hair of ladies of quality. The problem is the brush just skims over the top of Peaches’ considerable coat, leaving the undercoat untouched and tangled.
She looked wonderful but she was a mass of snarls and knots underneath. Thus Beverly’s phone call. She told me that to comb Peaches’ fur out would cause her a great deal of pain. This causes Peaches to scream in a high-pitched tone that will shatter windows in Pasadena City Hall. I could understand why Beverly--in addition to her normal concern and care for her clients’ feelings--did not want to hear this for an hour.
So she clipped Peaches right down to the skin, except for some hair on her face. Patsy went to get her and the dog came in the house looking like a small blond griffin. Her head looks too big for her body and her legs are spindly and frail looking.
She was wearing a red, white and blue ribbon on her collar, which Beverly had put on all the dogs for the Fourth of July. She puts it on the tops of the heads of the other dogs. Peaches wears her’s tied to her collar because she is driven to distraction by something on her head.
Peaches ran in the house, gave me one distraught yap, jumped on my bed and tried to bury herself in the pillows. She is now in the big chair in my room, crouched behind a large white rabbit, which normally occupies the chair.
This is a miserable little dog. I suggested that we take a walk. She gave me a look that suggested I had taken leave of my senses, and burrowed farther down behind the rabbit. I hope she does not plan to spend the summer there.
Actually, it will take several months for her fur to grow back to its flowing amplitude, and in the meantime she looks pitiful--woefully thin and undernourished. I’m going to take her back to Dr. Woody Walker and point out to him that she was not fat, she was just fluffy. I finally know what that means.
I am leaving for La Jolla in a few minutes and Patsy and Peaches will be alone. Patsy will be fine. I don’t know about Peaches. I have never seen a dog so depressed, except once.
That case concerned Michael, a collie who had to have a lion cut one summer for the same reason. He hid under the house for a week, coming out only when too thirsty to stand it, or when I lured him to the opening with bits of tenderloin.
He had a domineering mother, Candy, a collie of aristocratic habits and great embarrassment about her son.
When poor Michael came in the back gate after his haircut, Candy actually walked over and nipped him, whispering dread threats under her breath all the time. Obviously, she was saying, “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a million times. Don’t get a Mohawk.”
At least Peaches isn’t under the house.
