Looking for Love
By Emily Rupe
It was going to be one of those days! Thanks to a man and a herd of dogs claiming an entire bed as their territory, sleep had eluded me the night prior. To add insult to injury, “the most wonderful time of the month” had befallen me as well. Basically, I was a cranky, crampy, bloated mess as I drug myself into the grooming salon. Quietly, I prayed to the powers that be for an easy grooming day. Much to my chagrin, these powers had other plans and a sadistic sense of humor, because there scribbled in the book was the bane of my existence: Marshmallow.
Marshmallow, or more affectionately known as Marshmallow the humping Havanese, was one of those dogs that the entire shop begrudgingly took turns being saddled with. While not a biter or a matted mess, these 15 pounds of pent up sexual tension would molest throughout the entire groom. Nothing was safe from his ill intentions; grooming arms, the groomer, brushes, or even just the air were all targets. In addition, his stamina and appetite were unquenchable, so there was no hope of a reprieve until his parents fetched him. Oh, and did I mention he was neutered? One can only imagine the monster that would have developed had he not been.
Negotiations with the parents had been fruitless as well. Originally, the groomers had hoped some at-home training would alleviate this annoying and somewhat dangerous habit. (It was a challenge scissoring a thrusting target.) To our shock and horror, though, Marshmallow’s owners found his habit humorous and encouraged it as a source of entertainment. In fact, they suggested that we just allow him to finish. Needless to say we were gobsmacked.
I was less than enthused as I reluctantly grabbed the squirming fluff ball from his parents. Like each time prior, he forced himself onto everything within range. Of course my current condition only further fueled his passion. The kennel door was his lover. The cool water from the bath could not deter him, and as he stood on my table, he wrapped his legs around the grooming arm like an exotic dancer ready for a show. Since I had no singles on me and had already witnessed this display enough times for one day, my patience was wavering. I needed to finish this horny Havanese without accidently stabbing him with a scissor!
A PMS-fueled, grumpy idea struck me. While Marshmallow continued to work the pole, I fished out my lunchbox from my grooming station. From inside my insulated lunch cooler, I procured a small plastic ice pack. Enough was enough! I strategically placed the ice pack in range. The most girly, high-pitched scream issued from the Havanese as the bumping and grinding came to an abrupt halt. Still as night, he turned to face me. His eyes appeared to be boring into me, and I swear he wrinkled his nose up in disgust. However furious he was at me for playing this trick, it had completely killed his mojo for the rest of the groom, allowing me to finish it safely and with some form of sanity in tact.
The next eight weeks flew by, and once again, a groomer looked on in horror as Marshmallow adorned their schedule. Once his shenanigans began, I quickly rushed to my fellow groomer’s aid. With a sense of urgency, I came to the table with the ice pack. Before it could be placed in his range, Marshmallow jerked around to face the offending object and shuddered in horror. The humping ceased instantly, as the visual of the ice pack brought that indignant memory back to his mind. With the ice placed within his view, Marshmallow behaved like a chaste saint. From that point on, if we knew Marshmallow was coming in, one of us packed an ice pack with our lunch. I suppose it just goes to show that you can even teach a hormonally fueled dog a new trick. ✂