CHAPTER 8

Grooming Tuesday

nur•ture

/´nr-chr/

verb

to care for and encourage the growth or development of

OXFORD ENGLISH DICTIONARY

AS TUESDAY AND I TRAVEL AROUND, DIVING INTO ALL THESE challenging situations, people often ask us how it is we remain so tight. What these people are also asking, I think, is how they can deepen the connection with their own animals, what they can do to enhance that special human-canine bond. Part of it, certainly, is all the time we spend together. Part of it is the important mission that we share. But there is another aspect that few people fully appreciate, even lifelong animal lovers. It the special bonding opportunity that occurs when it’s time to groom Tuesday. That’s right, our grooming sessions are some of the most powerful and intimate experiences that he and I share.

I understand why people pay for grooming services at pet stores and salons. There’s the convenience of letting a professional take care of it all—the fur-cutting, the nail-trimming, the bathing, to name just a few of the many services these places provide. However, Tuesday and I—both of us—get a great deal out of our grooming rituals.

And that’s what these are—rituals. The way we approach Tuesday’s grooming and the time and energy we devote—it really does qualify as a spiritual event. Skipping this time we spend together would be a loss, a profound loss for us both.

Tuesday and I turn what could be an ordeal, something that many animals and their owners consider stressful, into one of our favorite activities together. And over time, we have established our own individual approaches and techniques.

Dogs and children are a lot alike when it comes to grooming. The more often you do it, the less likely you’ll hear whining or crying. In one form or another, I am grooming Tuesday constantly. I brush his coat twice a day. I brush his teeth every night. Chicken-flavored canine toothpaste, of course. We cut his nails once a month and trim back his toe tuffs, the hair around his toe pads. Once every month or two, I give him a bath.

Then, comes the real fun. Twice a year, we do a full snout-to-tail grooming. We can do this as a day-long marathon, or we can do it in forty-minute bursts over seven or eight days. Either way, it’s a powerful experience with innumerable benefits—physical, psychological, and practical. He feels better, looks better, and, when we are finished, goes out into the world with a new spring in his step. Dogs are a lot like humans in that way.

“Come here, Toopy” I say, and we get started. Toopy is a special nickname I’ve given him, a combination of Tuesday and Snoopy.

We always begin together on the floor. It’s crucial that I be on Tuesday’s level. Not above him. And never standing beside one of those elevated grooming tables you see at full-service pet salons. I understand why some professional dog groomers use them. They want to control the animal’s movement. Dogs who don’t know the groomer can be frightened and act unpredictably. Groomers have figured out that if they put the dog way up in the air on this metal table, he or she won’t move around so much. That much is true. Most dogs won’t jump around if they are on a table three feet off the ground. That’s an unnatural altitude for an animal. It can also be a scary one.

I don’t want to imply that professionals are only interested in control. If you are grooming animals for an eight-hour shift, your back gets sore after a while. Those elevated grooming tables are great for alleviating some of that discomfort. I get it. That said, however ideal it is for the human groomer, it’s far from ideal for the canine.

I never miss a chance to suggest to owners that they consider grooming their own dogs, at least a lot of the time. This isn’t brain surgery. It doesn’t have to be done by pedigreed professionals. Truly, any caring person can learn.

But the less conducive conditions for the dogs aren’t the biggest reason to consider doing it yourself. The most important reason is that a loving owner will do a better job—a much better job. And if you begin when your pup is young or new to your home, it’s never a job. It’s a special treat and an unparalleled bonding, nurturing experience.

We start with a long, slow brushing.

Tuesday is seated. I sit beside him, brushing his coat, not actually giving him a haircut. Just running a nice wire brush through his coat. Not too hard. Not too soft. Just smooth, long strokes flowing in the direction his coat lays. One look at that face and there’s no doubt that the gentle strokes are relaxing to him.

Twice a year, in spring and in autumn, he blows his coat. It’s a natural thing. As his new hair grows out, his older hairs loosen and this leads to heavy shedding. Around that time, I do shear his coat. I don’t shave him. It’s not a close cut. But with a pair of shearing scissors, I cut some of the volume off, close enough to make him feel more comfortable.

A nice, soft brushing is me saying, “I love you” and, “You can trust me.” That’s a much better way to get started than him feeling, “Oh, my God. This is really gonna hurt.” Consequently, Tuesday looks forward to being groomed.

No wonder when I say, “Tuesday, I’m going to brush you,” he starts wagging his tail—not running in the other direction, which is what a lot of dogs do.

As the brushing winds down, I do something that is good for his circulation and joints: I add some evenly applied hand massage. But it’s not only good for his health, it also connects us in yet another way. Lots of people hug their dogs. It is similar to that but it’s also a part of our grooming ritual. I start by massaging his hind legs. It builds the trust between us. He can’t see me behind him, but he knows I am there and I am doing something that makes him feel secure and comfortable. Loved. It removes any tension from the air.

Next, I run my fingers through the fur on the top of his back. From front to back. Down the opposite sides of his spinal cord. Often, I mix in some brushstrokes. It’s a comb/pet/massage on his spine that is very soothing to him. I spend some time on that, not rushing. Just connecting with him. Telling him what a good boy he is.

“You are such a good dog, Tuesday! You are such a handsome and beautiful boy. I love you.”

I’m grooming and massaging, but it’s Tuesday who is setting the pace. At some point, when he is ready, he turns around. He wants me to stroke his mane—his neck area, front, back, and sides. The nerve endings are very sensitive. When I stroke around his neck, it releases endorphins, similar to what happens in humans. It’s hard not to smile when I see him enjoying this back rub. Of course, I want him to feel good. I love him. It’s tremendously important to me that he feels and knows that he’s loved.

If you have dogs, you know that special joy they feel when you stroke their faces. Tuesday is highly trained, but in this way he isn’t any different from any other dog. I can see in his eyes that he enjoys it. Tuesday has a unique way of showing this. If he really likes what you are doing, he will drop his head and burrow the front of his body into you, leaning in on you. The message is nonverbal but crystal clear, “This feels good.”

I refer to it as the “massage table position.”

“Please rub my neck and shoulders,” Tuesday says with exacting body language. It’s almost precisely the way humans position ourselves on a massage table with our head in that hole toward the end of the bed.

It is also a sign of deference, like a bow in eastern cultures, a sign of respect and humility. In humans, it is an ancient, physical, and spiritual ritual. I can’t prove this. But I firmly believe that dogs do it with the same type of message in mind, a sign of submission. A sign of respect.

Dogs are natural predators. Humans too. Both our species have that instinct and that capacity. By burrowing his head into my chest, he is placing himself in a vulnerable position. If I wanted to, I could do him harm, which of course I don’t and never will. But by placing himself in a vulnerable position and doing it willfully, he is offering a sign of trust in my good intentions, in the fact that I love him and care for him and the knowledge that I will never hurt him, no matter the circumstances.

It is amazing—isn’t it?—how sophisticated canine communication can be, especially in quiet moments like this one. If only humans could learn to communicate so warmly and clearly. We have highly advanced linguistic abilities, and we still have trouble saying, “I love you.” How can we not admire the talents of dogs?

It’s interesting how we interact with canines, similar to the way we do with our children. I give Tuesday some kisses on his cheeks. Around his eyes. He is as calm as he will ever be.

Slowly, gently, calmly, I lift his left paw with my hand.

“Good boy,” I say.

Then, I clear the feathers around that paw.

Golden retrievers have unique feathers around their front and hind legs. They need to be shortened so they don’t pick up dirt from the ground when they walk. I use a special shearing tool, a brush with a razor embedded in it. The blade isn’t very sharp so I am confident I am not in any way hurting him, not even accidentally. When I run that tool through Tuesday’s feathers, it doesn’t cut them off entirely. It just cleans them up a bit.

After I am finished with the left front paw feathers, I do the same with the right front paw.

Some dog owners think of dog hair as if it is human hair. It isn’t. It grows differently and needs to be treated differently. Most often, it has to be cleared rather than cut, which is why that shearing tool is far more useful than a pair of barber scissors. To do the job right, you need the right tools.

Again, I turn Tuesday around so his backside is facing toward me. I shear down his tail feathers, just as I did in the front. As with collies and other long-haired dogs, golden retrievers have longish hair back there. Their backsides need regular shearing. Not just so the feathers don’t drag in the dirt. As you can imagine, long-haired dogs need this done to clear a path for their eliminations. It’s a matter of basic hygiene. The alternative is no fun for them and no fun for us. Far better to keep his backside neat and clean. This takes a while because those feathers grow long and the area is a little delicate. Slowly and carefully, and don’t wait for a yelp to know you’ve been careless. It’s definitely worth being careful with the shearing tool. That is something Tuesday does not need to tell me.

You don’t need a lesson book. Some of this is just instinctive. Early on, I figured out a special technique to use back there. I wouldn’t say Tuesday likes this part, but he seems to understand it’s important and he has gotten used to it. I grab his tail like a mother would grasp her daughter’s hair, as close to the scalp as I can, which eases the pain if the hairs get pulled. Essentially, Tuesday’s tail becomes a ponytail with my hand closed around the base. That way, he doesn’t feel like I am pulling his tail while I am shearing his tail feathers. It also controls his movement, which allows me to groom him evenly.

This isn’t just a method to calm him. It is also allows me to remain calm and steady. The bonding experience would be totally lost if we weren’t both calm.

It wouldn’t be relaxing if he were squirming and flinching like a lot of dogs tend to do. What I’m doing is as nurturing as a mother brushing her child’s hair, a teaching and bonding moment. But, just like with a mom who chooses to use force and harsh words to hold a hyperactive child down, there’s a better way.

It’s all very primal. I try to make Tuesday feel good. I groom his hair and skin, massaging him to make him feel better. Just like we feel better when we get a massage or a haircut. So do they.

Once we are done with the longer feathers, I go around his thighs with the shearing tool. Gently, I remove some of the hair on the backs of his legs near his hind paws. These feathers can grow long too if we let them. It’s amazing how unkempt an ungroomed retriever can appear. The change from before to after is profound. The hairs come off in little clumps. Admittedly, I’m a bit of a neat freak. So I collect them with my hand and toss them into the garbage. The hair I remove from Tuesday’s lustrous coat can quickly fill a good-size wastebasket.

Next, I groom the feathers along Tuesday’s stomach. Go watch an ungroomed long-haired dog run in the park. It’s fairly easy to see why this part is especially important. I don’t want those long hairs to get too close to the ground. Even with frequent shearings, he accumulates things in that stomach fur. He picks up dirt and God knows what else. This is just a reality for creatures who walk so close to the earth.

And even if I weren’t worried about finding something new and unusual during his next belly rub, I want him to look good.

Tuesday is not a house pet. He is out in public all the time, everywhere that I go. He represents his breed. He represents service dogs. He represents me. We are in restaurants together and grocery stores and hotel lobbies. We are invited into schools and libraries and people’s homes. I want to make sure he not only meets the standard, but exceeds it. I don’t want people thinking he is dirty. It’s important to me that they recognize immediately that his hygiene is superb. One look at Tuesday, and they have no reason to say, “Oh, my God, there is a dog in here. He might have fleas.” I want people to say, “Wow, that is a beautiful golden retriever.” Not because I want him to be a super model or because I get ego gratification from having a handsome dog. I want people to recognize he is very well cared for and is capable of extraordinary things. Most importantly, he is my service dog—a dog with special responsibilities that take him to places where many people and most dogs never go. And at those times, no one can be the least bit concerned about their own safety or comfort or hygiene.

This is an attitude and a standard I was taught by Lu Picard and the team at ECAD and one that I embraced wholeheartedly. All these years later, I still embrace it.

Beyond helping me, Tuesday is an ambassador. He is a public dog. It would be terrible if people thought he was not being taken care of. It would be contrary to what he and I stand for, contrary to what we talk about and fight for and believe in. It’s a central part of our human-canine bond. We have standards and we live up to them. Everything about his appearance should convey the seriousness of how we go about the business of changing the world.

Before we go any further in the grooming ritual, we take a break.

I pet his head. I keep affirming what a good dog he is. “Such a good boy, what a good boy.”

Then, it’s time to turn my attention to his ears. We’re wandering into delicate territory here.

For this job, the gentle shearing tool won’t do. I open a pair of small scissors. With one blade in my hand, I gingerly scape around the top of one of his ears, lightly shearing back some of the hair. Then, I do the same on the other ear. Not cutting. Not shaving. Shearing, just to shorten the hairs. If those hairs grow too long, falling past the ear flap, they knot. They get kinky. Such hair growth can facilitate bacterial growth inside and around the ear canal which, in turn, can become infected. That’s painful as it irritates the skin. He would scratch incessantly. That would likely break the skin and cause greater infection. The whole thing would be really uncomfortable for him, not to mention bad for his overall health. Grooming is about so much more than looking nice, not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Next, I clean his paws.

I start with the toe pads, the black paw area of his hind legs. I clean the dirt and other gook that has accumulated there. He really likes that. He feels the same way humans do when we wash our hands after a long day of work. It’s refreshing and nice. I also want to make sure there aren’t any rocks, sticks, bugs, or specs of dirt in his toe pads. The same with his nails. Any dirt there, I brush out.

At the same time, I search around his paws and on his skin for what is referred to as hot spots, areas that might be agitated or turn pink. They aren’t really hot per se. But the rosy color can give that impression and can cause tenderness that might make him limp. Those spots can be painful, and they tip us off to possible skin issues.

After all the shearing we have done, there is inevitably some hair that has been sheared but hasn’t been removed. It’s just sitting there, hiding in one of his crevices or stuck to his coat.

That’s a job for a fine-bristle metal brush, going over his entire body this time to remove the lingering hairs. For him, it’s like one last luxuriating massage.

One thing we don’t do much of is bathing. Frequent bathing really isn’t the best way to keep a dog fresh and clean. Or healthy. For Tuesday, baths are comparatively rare, perhaps every four to six weeks, unless he has made an unusually large mess of himself. Daily or even weekly bathing isn’t good for his skin or his coat. It dries him out. The natural oils in his skin would become affected. A lot of people bathe their dogs way too often, I believe. As a general principle, a brush is far superior to a bathtub.

Of course, this isn’t so for humans, where soap and water is still the way to go. But brushing really is Tuesday’s routine form of bathing. It’s better all the way around. It keeps him clean. It relaxes him. He very much enjoys it. I do too. There are no negative consequences. And something I learned when I’ve taken Tuesday to warmer climates: Dogs don’t need bathing to cool down. Dogs are like bears, deer, and other furry mammals in this way. They regulate body temperature differently than humans do. They have a different physiology than we do. We sweat. They pant. For the most part, it is through panting that dogs circulate the necessary air through their bodies to cool down.

When we are finally done, I use baby wipes to clean the brushes and the other grooming instruments. I treat them the way I was taught to treat my weapons and equipment in the Army, according to careful and predictable routine. The same way we wanted our machine guns and vehicles to operate properly when needed, I don’t want bacteria and other toxins growing on our grooming tools. I want to be sure everything is ready for me in perfect order when we return for our next grooming session.

Recognizing our grooming session is over as I finish cleaning the tools, Tuesday hops on the bed and looks down at me from above. I know what he is thinking because I am thinking the same thing.

With an expression of affection and contentment, he is saying, “I love you.”