Romilly must sense my hesitation, because she laughs a warm, bubbling sound. “He may look scary, but trust me. Kujois such a softie." She gracefully kneels to the ground, reaching her hand out to peel back his lips. He wags his tail, letting her examine him, making me feel like a complete pansy.
"Let me try.” I model her movements, kneeling down beside her. But when I reach my hand out, the massive canine's lips curl on their own. The skin at the top of his snout bunches together, and a low growl escapes him. I return to a standing position and cross my arms. “Not fair, mate. You haven’t even given me a chance to show you I won’t hurt you.”
Romilly looks amused. “Come on. I’ll show you what to do, okay? Then I’ll expect you to take over with the other dogs today. But I’ll still be able to help you, since this is your first time working with animals.”
She leads me and Kujo to the washing area. I swear the dog looks over his shoulder at me a couple times, simply to glare. I try to pay attention as she shows me which shampoo and conditioner Kujo gets every time and directs me on how to wash him by modeling everything for me. She has no issues scrubbing the massive dog down, getting him nice and clean. She even trims his toenails with him right there in the bath, and the dog is perfectly polite, handing her each paw one after the other.
She shows me how to dry him with the velocity dryers attached to the wall, and how to brush his teeth as well.
I can’t help but admire her courage, the simplicity with which she performs the task. “What do you need a bather for? You’re so good at this.”
She blushes. “Thanks. But I need the help because I have to take a minimum of thirty-six dogs a week in order to afford this place and still make a profit. And both washing and grooming them all would take too long by myself. So having a bather on staff allows me to just focus on the grooming part, and it saves me half the time.”
“I see. Why don’t you hire more groomers as well, so you can make more of a profit and work less?”
“I…um…” She continues in a hushed, embarrassed tone, “The only other groomer in town doesn’t want to work with me.”
I frown. “Why not?”
“My last business failed, so she doesn’t trust me anymore. And I-I totally understand. It is what it is.” She stares at her hands as she worries them together,and I’m prevented from answering when another customer enters.
This dog, Janet, is a Yorkie, and much smaller than Kujo. Much more cooperative when I try to pet her, too. Romilly monitors me as I complete all the steps she demonstrated, stepping in occasionally to correct me, and reminding me what to do next.
The more dogs I work on, the more I get the hang of it. It’s all new to me, never having owned a pet before. And though I like dogs just fine, it takes me a while to get used to the smell of them when they’re wet.
“How am I doing?” I ask her.
She glances over from her grooming table to see my progress with an Australian Shepherd named Rosie. “You’re doing fine for now. And don’t worry, it won’t take long for you to improve. Hands-on jobs like this one make a fast learner out of anyone.”
I shake my head. “I’d love to learn how to not make a mess of my clothes. Look at you. No fair.” Compared to me, Romilly looks spotless. Her jeans have a few clumps of hair sticking to the bottoms near her ankles, but otherwise, no one would ever guess she’s been grooming dogs all day. I, on the other hand, am not only completely soaked, but covered in so much hair, I’m starting to feel itchy.
But I continue. Because I’m determined to do a good job no matter how uncomfortable I am.
When it comes time to bathe the Chihuahua, Romilly hands me a tiny pink muzzle for Angel to wear. “You’re going to need this. Trust me.”
And she’s right. Angel makes sounds I’ve never heard before as I lower her into the water-filled tub. She snarls, twists every time I touch her. If it weren’t for the muzzle, I’d be way too scared to even touch her.
“You’re right,” I mutter. “I’m eating my words right now.”
She giggles. “Told you.”
A grown man like me, scared of a dog smaller than my boots.
This is truly a new low for me.
When I walk through the front door, it’s six p.m., and Ingrid is putting away leftover spaghetti she must have made while I was gone. I’m exhausted, but I know I don’t have a chance of making it past her to escape to my room as soon as I see her face.
Her mouth falls open as she takes in the chunks of fluffy dog hair stuck to my trousers, shirt, and face. The scratch marks on my forearms. The water squishing in my shoes.
“This is too good to be true,” she states in an even tone.
“I don’t want to hear a word.”
“Whoever this Romilly is, I’ve got to meet her.”
I roll my eyes. “Enough, Ingrid.”
“I mean it. Look at you, Bash. She got you towork. Like, actually lift a finger. I’ve simply got to meet her. Invite her over for brunch.”
