There are certain sounds in this house that mean good things. The rustle of a treat bag. The jingle of my lead. The creak of the back door on a sunny morning. And then there are sounds that mean the exact opposite. The squeak of the bathroom tap. The clatter of bottles being lined up on the edge of the bath. The unmistakable snap of rubber gloves.
Today was a rubber gloves day.
The warning signs
I knew something was off from the moment Dad got up. He had that look on his face. You know the one. The look that says “I’m about to do something you won’t like and I’m already feeling guilty about it.” He wouldn’t make eye contact with me over breakfast. Dead giveaway, that. Mum was moving around upstairs with far too much purpose for a Saturday morning, and I could hear water running.
Now, I should point out that I’m a Lhasa Apso. My coat is magnificent. Silky, flowing, the sort of thing that makes other dogs stare and humans reach out for an uninvited stroke. It’s basically my whole identity. And these two people, who claim to love me, were about to subject it to an hour of absolute torture.
I made a strategic decision to wedge myself under the coffee table.
The capture
They tried the treat approach first. Mum appeared at the living room door with a piece of chicken, speaking in that high-pitched voice she only uses when she wants something. “Who wants a lovely treat? Who’s a good girl?”
I am not stupid. That chicken had strings attached. I stayed put.
Dad then tried the casual approach, wandering past the coffee table pretending to look for the TV remote. I watched his hand creep towards my collar. I shuffled backwards. He lunged. I dodged left. For a brief and beautiful moment, I was free and heading for the back door, but Mum had already closed it.
Cornered by the sofa, I accepted my fate with the dignity of a queen being led to the scaffold. Dad scooped me up. The bathroom door loomed ahead.
The ordeal
The water was warm, I’ll give them that. But that’s where my generosity ends.
The thing about Lhasa Apso coats is they’re double-layered. A soft, dense undercoat covered by a longer, silkier top coat. This means that getting properly wet takes approximately the same amount of time as filling a swimming pool with a garden hose. Dad stood there pouring cup after cup of water over me while I stared at him with what I can only describe as profound disappointment.
Then came the shampoo. Some lavender nonsense that Mum bought from a website because it was “specially formulated for long-haired breeds.” It smelled like a garden centre had a fight with a spa. I don’t need to smell like lavender. I had a perfectly good scent going on, a complex layering of garden mud, fox poo from last Tuesday’s walk, and what I believe was a trace of the cheese sandwich I rolled on at the beach.
Gone. All of it. Months of careful scent curation, washed down the plughole.
The conditioner was somehow worse. Dad had to work it through every inch of my coat, gently teasing out tangles with his fingers while Mum held me still. I’d like to say I bore this with grace. I did not. I shook myself at the worst possible moment and covered them both in a fine mist of lavender-scented water. Mum screamed. Dad closed his eyes and sighed. Small victories.
The indignity of the dryer
After the towelling came the bit I hate the most. The blow dryer.
I’ve been through a lot in my ten years. I’ve faced down foxes in our garden. I’ve survived fireworks night without hiding behind the sofa (well, once). I’ve even tolerated the vet poking about in my ears. But that howling, screaming machine that blasts hot air while making the noise of a jet engine? Absolutely not.
Dad held me on his lap while Mum aimed the dryer, working through my coat section by section with a brush. The whole process took nearly forty minutes. Forty minutes of noise, heat, and brushing while I sat there looking like a cotton ball that had been struck by lightning.
But then something happened. Somewhere around the halfway mark, when the brush started gliding smoothly through my coat and the tangles gave way to silk, I started to feel… actually quite good. My fur was light and bouncy. It swished when I moved. I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror and, well, I looked absolutely stunning.
Not that I’d ever admit that to them.
The aftermath
Once released, I did what any self-respecting Lhasa Apso would do. I charged downstairs, grabbed my favourite toy, did three laps of the living room at full speed, and then rolled around on the carpet to reclaim some dignity and static electricity.
Dad collapsed on the sofa looking like he’d run a marathon. Mum surveyed the bathroom, which now resembled a crime scene with more hair in it. There was water on the ceiling. I don’t know how, and frankly it’s not my problem.
Later, when things had calmed down, I positioned myself on Dad’s lap and let him admire his handiwork. He stroked my freshly groomed coat and muttered something about how it would look like this for approximately two days before I found something disgusting to roll in.
He’s not wrong.
But for now, I’ll sit here in the last of the afternoon sun coming through the window, my coat catching the light, looking like the absolute queen I am. Grooming day is a nightmare, obviously. But the results? The results are worth every soggy, lavender-scented second.
Even if I’d rather eat my own lead than admit it.
Has your Lhasa got their own grooming day horror story? Drop it in the comments. We know you’ve got one.
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