Yes, I See Me in the Wee

I've been wanting to upload this for a while, but the ending is week so I put it off.  March is coming to a close, so here goes, weak ending.  Suggestions welcome.  :)

Yes, I See Me in the Wee

I had to dremel the dog’s toenails today.  I didn’t know dremels existed until this dog.  It’s a very cool electric thingy with a rotating head covered by an emory band, so it spins doggie toenails into dust.  I bought it because clipping his nails required the muscles of a trainer,  because I was terrified of getting into the quick, and because the process was so traumatizing to him that he would wee whenever he saw the clippers.  So, the last time the groomer clipped him to the quick, I bought the dremel.

Now my lab wees when he sees the dremel.  It doesn’t hurt, but he wees.  Every time.  I give him treats, I woo and pet and praise him.  He cowers and wees.  I roll him on his back, lay a towel on his privates, and start the dremel on low.  It doesn’t matter how low.  Whiz goes the dremel; wee goes the dog. 

He does the same at bath time.  A bath means being praised for every baby step into the tub, getting watered down with a warm spray, and being gently massaged with a fluffly glove.  He takes on a droopy turkey-vulture look from the minute I say, “Bath,” head hanging low, eyes looking down, suspicious that this one time will be different than all others. 

I’m the one who bathes and dremels him, the one who wipes out his ears with a cotton swap, the one who brings the flea meds into the house.  I am the adversary.  In between those events, he is cuddled next to me or begging to be petted.  But, when a dremel or cotton ball or flea pill appears, he eyes me suspiciously, wishing I would stop interfering in his life.  I become the one he tries to hide from.  The one he dreads.  I am the weirdo who won’t leave him alone. 

Cleaning up the last puddle of wee today, I thought, “You ridiculous, ridiculous dog.  Stop making this mess.  You have nothing to fear in me.  I wish you could speak English.  I wish I could speak dog.”

Yes, I got it.  Yes, I saw me in the wee.  Running, hiding, weirding out over things I can’t figure out.  Peering around a corner at the future, wondering if my master will really insist on another bath or clean ears or good medicine.  And if so, will they look different than last time?  My head might know He is good and loves me, and experience might tell me He has only done me good.  But, my ridiculous, ridiculous flesh still sometimes asks if I can really trust him this time not to drown or poison me, trim me too close, or cause me unnecessary pain.  And I sulk and tremble and wee.

I’m glad He’s patient.  And that keeps interfering.