dogs
When I was younger, I used to paint my dog's toenails with nail polish. Bright, neon green was my favorite color to paint them, because it was easily visible through the furry patches that partially covered his nails. He was a good sport--never argued and often just went on sleeping as I gently took his paws in my hand, sweeping over them with a tiny nail polish brush.
I think I always thought of my pets as having more human mannerisms--from a young age my mom and I discovered that one of our dogs, Cinnamon, had an allergy to any specially crafted "dog shampoos", and so when bathing him, we freely used whatever shampoo and conditioner was available in our shower at the time. Most often it was Pantene, and my mom and I looked forward to the few days after giving Cinnamon a bath, his coat and tail would shimmer, and he was incredibly soft to the touch. Not to mention that when walking by, he would leave the same delicious trail of shampoo that typically follows a human with long, freshly washed hair. During the summer months, in order to give my two dogs their baths, I would put on a bathing suit, a cheap pair of sunglasses, and trap each dog with a shortened leash on the front porch. I would then turn on the front hose, spraying them with an enthusiasm I usually reserved for reading, or jumping off the swings in competitions on the playground. Both the dogs hated being bathed, but they went along with it nonetheless. By the end, the porch and our pathetic patch of grass in the front yard were covered in a sudsy stream of fur and human shampoo and conditioner, and all three of us smelled like wet dogs. But it was all worth it, for the way the dogs would shimmer and smell deliciously human for a few days.
I discovered early on from my grandmother that a dog needs a bath somewhat regularly--especially if he likes to play in the river the way her dog, Rudy, did. She always insisted that his post-river hosing was for his safety, but I always suspected it was more due to vanity; making sure he smelled less like dirty river water, and more like a clean, respectable member of the family. In the wintertime, we would only let Rudy walk alongside the river on walks; the baths were unheard of in the cold weather, as were inside dog baths. Rudy was never tempted to go into the bathrooms anyway, I can't imagine he would've been too keen to climb into the bathtub just to get soaked in shampoo.
You'd think that my fondest memories of my dogs would have to do with the times we went camping, when Cinnamon, at fifteen years old, wandered playfully into the ocean, biting at the waves and limp-running after me as I danced with the water. Or the times that Bob woke up both my roommate and I at college when he realized halfway through the night, panting, that it was too hot to sleep under the covers of my bed. But I love to remember the mundane times too, the times I had to run upstairs as I dripped soapy bits of fur onto the floor because I had forgotten to get a towel to dry the dogs and myself after a bath. And I remember the last time I gave Cinnamon an inside bath before he died, how I cried with relief when he still found a way to outsmart me and jump out of the bathtub, soaking the tiles and the bathroom rug.
My first real experience with mourning came when I realized, devastated, that Cinnamon had died, despite the fact that I had spent seven years trying to prepare for the loss of him. I mostly remember the positive memories, now, but it still breaks my heart to think that before, there were dogs to bathe, and now there is only a house, with a porch, and human shampoo and conditioner that last quite a bit longer with just my mom and I using them. But that's the way things go, right? Sometimes you recognize small things, things you never thought you'd miss.
Rudy died before Cinnamon, and I think a piece of my grandmother died with him. She doesn't live in the same house anymore, in fact, she lives pretty far from the river where we used to walk. She's happy, I think, even though pets aren't allowed at her new apartment. A dog is a huge commitment, and that's not even counting all the baths that are necessary in a canine's lifetime.
I only paint my own nails now; though I've been doing it for enough years that I've nailed down somewhat of a routine. But I don't ever use lime green nail polish. It doesn't really work with my skin tone.
I think I always thought of my pets as having more human mannerisms--from a young age my mom and I discovered that one of our dogs, Cinnamon, had an allergy to any specially crafted "dog shampoos", and so when bathing him, we freely used whatever shampoo and conditioner was available in our shower at the time. Most often it was Pantene, and my mom and I looked forward to the few days after giving Cinnamon a bath, his coat and tail would shimmer, and he was incredibly soft to the touch. Not to mention that when walking by, he would leave the same delicious trail of shampoo that typically follows a human with long, freshly washed hair. During the summer months, in order to give my two dogs their baths, I would put on a bathing suit, a cheap pair of sunglasses, and trap each dog with a shortened leash on the front porch. I would then turn on the front hose, spraying them with an enthusiasm I usually reserved for reading, or jumping off the swings in competitions on the playground. Both the dogs hated being bathed, but they went along with it nonetheless. By the end, the porch and our pathetic patch of grass in the front yard were covered in a sudsy stream of fur and human shampoo and conditioner, and all three of us smelled like wet dogs. But it was all worth it, for the way the dogs would shimmer and smell deliciously human for a few days.
I discovered early on from my grandmother that a dog needs a bath somewhat regularly--especially if he likes to play in the river the way her dog, Rudy, did. She always insisted that his post-river hosing was for his safety, but I always suspected it was more due to vanity; making sure he smelled less like dirty river water, and more like a clean, respectable member of the family. In the wintertime, we would only let Rudy walk alongside the river on walks; the baths were unheard of in the cold weather, as were inside dog baths. Rudy was never tempted to go into the bathrooms anyway, I can't imagine he would've been too keen to climb into the bathtub just to get soaked in shampoo.
You'd think that my fondest memories of my dogs would have to do with the times we went camping, when Cinnamon, at fifteen years old, wandered playfully into the ocean, biting at the waves and limp-running after me as I danced with the water. Or the times that Bob woke up both my roommate and I at college when he realized halfway through the night, panting, that it was too hot to sleep under the covers of my bed. But I love to remember the mundane times too, the times I had to run upstairs as I dripped soapy bits of fur onto the floor because I had forgotten to get a towel to dry the dogs and myself after a bath. And I remember the last time I gave Cinnamon an inside bath before he died, how I cried with relief when he still found a way to outsmart me and jump out of the bathtub, soaking the tiles and the bathroom rug.
My first real experience with mourning came when I realized, devastated, that Cinnamon had died, despite the fact that I had spent seven years trying to prepare for the loss of him. I mostly remember the positive memories, now, but it still breaks my heart to think that before, there were dogs to bathe, and now there is only a house, with a porch, and human shampoo and conditioner that last quite a bit longer with just my mom and I using them. But that's the way things go, right? Sometimes you recognize small things, things you never thought you'd miss.
Rudy died before Cinnamon, and I think a piece of my grandmother died with him. She doesn't live in the same house anymore, in fact, she lives pretty far from the river where we used to walk. She's happy, I think, even though pets aren't allowed at her new apartment. A dog is a huge commitment, and that's not even counting all the baths that are necessary in a canine's lifetime.
I only paint my own nails now; though I've been doing it for enough years that I've nailed down somewhat of a routine. But I don't ever use lime green nail polish. It doesn't really work with my skin tone.
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