Snipped

Sunday afternoon the Aggie was running his hand along Ripken's back. The Superbowl was yet to come on and he was enjoying a few moments of quiet time with our biggest baby. As he petted the Super Fuzz, he noticed that most of Ripken's long hair had matted toward the skin. It wasn't noticeable if you looked at it, but if you tried to brush through it you could tell he was developing some gnarly dreadlocks underneath his topcoat.

That's when the Aggie uttered the famous last words: "Hey, I got an idea!" And thus the story of my trying to give Ripken a haircut begins.

The next afternoon I led our 60-pound lapdog into the bathroom and settled down on the tile with him. The Aggie positioned Ripken in his lap so he could help me lift body parts around so I could get at the knots. After about an hour of snipping, we realized that poor Rippy needed an all-over shearing, something his mommy clearly wasn't capable of providing. Seeing that a simple trim wasn't going to do it, we tried to even him out the best we could and called the vet/dog groomer for an appointment the next day.

Now, if I were a sane person, the story would end here, but since I have a big old case of The Crazies there is much, much more to my tale. You see, the two knots that started this whole debacle were still there. I had yet to get them, and by god, those bastards were going down if it was the last thing I did. Together, we hunkered in and began wrestling with the Mucho Grande Knottos.

As I was – admittedly – blind-cutting the clump of hair under his chest, Ripken jumped straight up in the air and made a slight "eeep" sound. I stopped, dead still, afraid I'd snipped him. A millisecond later, Ripken resumed his position of standing motionless and I continued to clipped away.

"I think you just pulled his hair a little," the Aggie said.

Convinced Ripken was just tender-headed I kept going. And then it happened a gain. Only this time it was a slightly more pronounced yelp and jump. Even though it was a minor reaction, I couldn't stand the thought of hurting my baby by yanking on his knotted up hair, I threw the scissors down in disgust and proclaimed that the groomer could do this and Ripken could hate her instead of me.

And that was that. Or so we thought.

The next day after Ripken was dropped off for his professional hairdo, the vet called me at work wondering why the dog had two large gashes on his chest.

"I have no idea!" I screeched, my mind reeling with possibilities of who could have attacked my dog.

"Well…" the vet paused, clearly trying to figure out how to say what was coming next. "Forgive me for asking, but did someone attempt to cut his hair?"

Long, pregnant pause.

"OH," I said.

"Yeah, I think someone was… a tad scissor happy," he said.

"OH NO!" I bellowed. "I did it! I cut my baby! It was an accident. I'm so sorry!"

"Technically, you stabbed him. The wound is two inches or so…" the vet began.

"NO! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD!" I interrupted.

Sensing my hysterics, the vet softened.

"It's okay! Accidents happen. Calm down. Really, it's okay. Just take a deep breath," he assured me. "I just wanted to let you know that I'm going to sedate him, stitch him up and clean out the stab wounds."

"Do whatever you need to!" I cried. " Just make him better. I'm so sorry."

"It's okay, we'll take good care of him," he promised and hung up.

Then I had to call the Aggie and tell him I had shanked his best friend. Twice.

I have to give him credit -- he didn't totally lose his shit. He wasn't happy that I'd stabbed the dog, but he didn't blame me for what happened either. He was more concerned about us being reported for animal cruelty and having or brood confiscated. After a few minutes reeling in the sheer horror at what I'd done, the Aggie opted to call the vet and make sure I wasn't going to cited by any animal group. Or worse – that Ripken was going to be removed from our home.

Turns out we truly were in no danger of having Ripken impounded. We were assured that animals get hurt all the time – like hit by cars or bitten by snakes. Its just that usually the injuries aren't at the hands of Momma "Scissorhands" Pug, but still shit happens.

By last night our baby was resting comfortably at home. He wasn't worried about the stitches so much as concerned that his best friend Gertrude the Angry Cat didn't recognize him with his new haircut and fru-fru smell-him-up. He spent most of last night convincing her he really was the same dog, which was no easy task.

And I have to admit that I'm especially glad that Ripken didn't get taken away from us because if the Aggie had to choose between keeping me or the dog… Well, I think we all know that Ripken wouldn't be the one left up for adoption.