Let me be clear. The Supergroomer is not a classic heroic character. She is usually an antihero, and occasionally a villain. A delusion of heroism that crops up in my mind from time to time, the Supergroomer encourages me to attempt actions that are clearly unwise or beyond my capabilities. She is responsible for most of my physical injuries and definitely for my mental burnout. It is the Supergroomer who says “Yes” when the answer should be “NO WAY”. She can be both the angel and devil on my shoulder, whispering mad ideas mixed with genius so that I cannot tell the difference.
It was the Supergroomer who agreed to groom an enormous Newfoundland on a day when she knew I had no assistant coming in to the shop.
“He is so well behaved,” she said. “You can do it by yourself.”
The dog did have exquisite manners and, like the gentleman he was, heaved himself up and put his front paws on the edge of the raised bathtub. “See! You only have to lift half of him,” the Supergroomer said. With a mighty grunt, like the hammer throwers at the Olympics or that notorious tennis player, I managed to heft the back end of the giant dog up and into the tub. There were lights, purple and red lights, that exploded into my vision along with some serious dizziness and a little disorientation. But he was up there.
I phoned my husband. “What percentage of your body weight are you supposed to be able to lift without killing yourself?” I asked.
“Why? What did you do now?” he said.
“Nothing, nothing. I’m just curious.”
Once my breath returned, I bathed the Newf and used the high velocity dryer to blow out most of the moisture in his coat. Then I tried to get him out of the tub. “Down is easier than up,” said Supergroomer. “Gravity, you know.”
The Newfoundland knew about gravity too. He was big enough that he generated his own field. No matter what I tried, I could not get him to put his front legs on the edge of the tub. Because he was raised up, and incredibly heavy, I couldn’t lift him over the edge myself. Then he had enough. He lay down and I was toast. Practically in tears, I phoned my Dad. “Could you please come over and help me lift a dog?”
My folks lived close by, so the Newf hung out in the tub for a short time while we waited for Dad to arrive. “Holy crap!” he cried. “I thought you needed help lifting a dog up! How did you get that thing up there by yourself?”
The two of us wrestled the dog out of the tub, and I saw those fireworks again. Amazingly, my heart did not explode, nor did I get a hernia. But not from lack of trying.
It was the Supergroomer who agreed to groom an enormous Newfoundland on a day when she knew I had no assistant coming in to the shop.
“He is so well behaved,” she said. “You can do it by yourself.”
The dog did have exquisite manners and, like the gentleman he was, heaved himself up and put his front paws on the edge of the raised bathtub. “See! You only have to lift half of him,” the Supergroomer said. With a mighty grunt, like the hammer throwers at the Olympics or that notorious tennis player, I managed to heft the back end of the giant dog up and into the tub. There were lights, purple and red lights, that exploded into my vision along with some serious dizziness and a little disorientation. But he was up there.
I phoned my husband. “What percentage of your body weight are you supposed to be able to lift without killing yourself?” I asked.
“Why? What did you do now?” he said.
“Nothing, nothing. I’m just curious.”
Once my breath returned, I bathed the Newf and used the high velocity dryer to blow out most of the moisture in his coat. Then I tried to get him out of the tub. “Down is easier than up,” said Supergroomer. “Gravity, you know.”
The Newfoundland knew about gravity too. He was big enough that he generated his own field. No matter what I tried, I could not get him to put his front legs on the edge of the tub. Because he was raised up, and incredibly heavy, I couldn’t lift him over the edge myself. Then he had enough. He lay down and I was toast. Practically in tears, I phoned my Dad. “Could you please come over and help me lift a dog?”
My folks lived close by, so the Newf hung out in the tub for a short time while we waited for Dad to arrive. “Holy crap!” he cried. “I thought you needed help lifting a dog up! How did you get that thing up there by yourself?”
The two of us wrestled the dog out of the tub, and I saw those fireworks again. Amazingly, my heart did not explode, nor did I get a hernia. But not from lack of trying.
Artwork is trademarked by Chris Cowley, Windchill Studios
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