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Oh, what a tangled mat we weave
When the poor dog’s brush goes unretrieved!
The hairs mash down and twirl around
Until a quick fix can’t be found.
The doggie squirms uncomf’trably
And tries to move away from me,
As heartlessly I clip her hair,
Confronting tangles ev’rywhere.
She stares with frightened widened eyes
As mounds of her own hair pile high.
It’s time to quit and let her rest.
She runs to hide her “nakedness”.
But, sadly, I am not done yet:
There’s still a lot of mats to get
Before she sees professionals
With clipping skills exceptional.
At her appointment, they will find
A dog already tangle-mined.
‘Twill be short work – so sad, but true!—
To straighten out her messy “do”.

by Gwennon
July 19, 2013

I wrote this about my grand-doggie, Lola, who is staying with us until her “Mommy” (Lizzie) heals from her C-section, and is ready to move the doggie back home to a house with a brand-new baby. So, Lola will be upgraded from “dog” to “Big Sister”. In today’s language, I suppose that makes her “Lola 2.0”. Please pray that she makes the transition easily.

To make a short story long, I wrote this poem just about an hour before returning to cut the poor dog’s hair “just a bit more”. Unfortunately, while I was snipping, the doggie moved. At a very inopportune time. To my horror, I discovered that I had removed a small piece of skin (about one sixteenth of a square inch) from her flank, and as I poured out my endless apologies while applying raw honey to disinfect and protect the wound, I was unexpectedly confronted with the absolutely unconditional forgiveness of a loving dog. Lola did not hate me for my carelessness. Instead, she cuddled with me on the couch for 45 minutes while I tried to keep her from further aggravating the wound, and we waited for the wound to dry. In the days since, after several more applications of raw honey, the wound has scabbed over nicely, and I am just praying that Lola won’t be left with a small bald spot after she heals. It looks like the dog groomers are probably worth every penny they are paid not to clip more than the dogs’ hair. Sigh. So, that’s my sad tale of woe. Feel free to commiserate with me.

In other news, I know that the good grammarians among my readers have probably fixated on the improper spelling of the word “uncomfortably”, here corrupted to “uncomf’trably”. I contracted it and messed with the spelling to force the poor word into the metrical scheme of the poem, and decided to spell it as it would sound when I am reading it aloud. Poetic license. Can’t spell with it, and can’t write without it!

Praying for God to bless you today,

Gwennon

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