Right this second, it's 3.53 am.
I've been up since 3.14 am.
Can't sleep.
Perhaps because Stephen was exhausted by 8.00 pm and was pestering me to go upstairs with him and read that I succumbed even thought I didn't want to.
I wanted to go for a walk.
At 2.30 my eyes popped open.
Wide awake.
No chance of sleep in the future.
I got up.
Confused the dogs.
Came downstairs to the kitchen-turned-family room-turned office.
Turned on the dishwasher.
Why not?
I'm up.
Em came home around 3.45 am from the Empire Theater staff showing of Captain America and Harry Potter.
Stunned I was wide awake, in the kitchen.
Apparently, Captain America was awful.
Corny.
One of those movies where the previews contained the best parts of the film.
We were supposed to see it later this evening, but now we're not.
We're going to see Harry Potter instead.
Again.
Fine with me.
I need to see movies at least twice.
Once to find out what happens.
Again to see how what happened, happened.
At a more civilized time of day. . . .9.30 am-ish. . .
Yesterday, I gave in to the no longer unavoidable.
Tikka needed a bath.
Desperately.
Not only because she was a tad pungent.
But also because she needed to get rid of her excess hair.
I genuinely like bathing Tikka.
Like Meredyth, Frankie is high maintenance and demanding, making it virtually impossible to even look at Tikka without him thinking that something is happening and he's being left out.
So bath time is also some much needed alone time with my best canine girl.
Although I highly doubt that's how she sees it.
Em and Mer had to work for 11.15 am and 11.30 am respectively, meaning it was an opportune time to put on my Tikka bathing clothes, put her in the car, and go.
Keith and Stephen were engaging in some male bonding time, so it was just me and Tikka.
I could hear Frankie crying and barking from the driveway until I turned the corner.
Broke my heart.
But not enough to turn around and get him.
He does not like being without Tikka.
Which is going to raise a lot of problems at some point.
Not for a long time.
But at some point.
Being in the back of the car sans Frankie should be a signal to Tikka that something is up, and she's not going to like it.
Because the only time she's without Frankie is if she's going to the vet.
Or getting a bath.
We don't bath Frankie.
At least not at this point in his life.
He takes a mere brushing as a personal challenge.
An invitation to engage in some aggressive playtime.
Biting the brush.
Jumping around.
Being a general pain in the ass.
A bath would be the Frantic Frankie version of an extreme sport.
We get off the Hanwell Road, just across the road from Ritchie's Carpet Warehouse and here we are.
U Wash Dog Wash.
Any place that provides elevated bathtubs is a place you want to bath your dog.
Plus there are so many extras.
Gourmet, organic, baked-in-store dogs treats.
Biodegradable poop bags.
Critical in a house where there's more poop than potatoes, and Goblet refuses to use the litter box for her solid waste.
I never purchase fewer than three rolls of 120 at a time.
That's how much shit is generated in this house.
And that's only the animal shit.
Dodads and gegaws of all sorts.
.
Tikka and I were placed in the middle tub.
I love the steps up to the tub.
Because lifting Tikka isn't on a list of things I'd like to experience.
She's always excited when we go inside.
New smells, lots of space, people happy to see her.
The owner commented that I was on my own today.
Usually, I can convince one of the kids, or Stephen, to accompany me.
It really is a lot of work to bath Miss Tikka.
I replied that it was just me and Tikka today.
To which the owner responded,
Well, you're pretty bossy when you're bathing Tikka.
And you know what?
She is absolutely right.
I am.
I know this about myself.
Part of it is genetic.
My father is the same way.
The other part is just wanting everything done right.
Dawne-right.
Which probably explains the impromptu Stephen and Keith bonding time.
And the looks of relief on the girl's faces when they realized they could use work as a viable reason for not joining me at the tub.
Seems bathing Tikka is going to be a Dawne-only activity from now on.
Fine with me.
I have steps, a tub, and all the supplies I need at the ready. . .
Brushes, toe nail clippers, two bottles of shampoo, ear wipes, face wipes, dog treats, special scissors to remove those pesky knots and mats, mini vacuum like blow dryers, towels (for me and Tikka), plus a vinyl apron to reduce wetage caused by shaking dogs.
Alone is just fine with me.
First, we begin with the brushing.
Which can take quite a while, given how much fur Tikka can carry.
After about 30 minutes of brushing, we had amassed a half a bathtub full of hair.
I could have kept going, but Tikka was already indicating that her patience was running thin.
And we had just started.
There are two round, metal dodads that allow you to tether your dog to the wall so they can't jump out of the tub.
If Tikka behaves herself, I don't tether her.
But once she starts voicing her opinion regarding how she feels about being subjected to such undignified treatment, it's time to tether her.
Because after voicing comes active attempts to jump out of the tub.
Especially when she realizes that part and parcel of the bathing experience includes stage two: nail clipping.
When Tikka was younger, she abjectly refused to allow anyone to clip her nails.
Including the vet, who after the one and only time she ever tried to clip A nail, said Tikka would have to be anesthetized to have her nails trimmed.
And then suggested letting her run around on concrete to file them down.
Which lead to a period of allowing Tikka off leash time in a local, enclosed tennis court.
The only enclosed concrete surface I could find.
Thankfully, with age, Tikka has mellowed somewhat, and no longer beliefs nail trimming is tantamount to torture.
Don't confuse her allowing her nails to be trimmed with any sort of assistance on her part.
That would be too simple.
I still have to cajole her, whisper sweet nothing to her, as I try to grasp a paw to trim a nail.
And she firmly plants said paw right back on the bottom of the tub.
Meaning it usually takes about 15 minutes to do something that, with a co-operative dog, and a competent owner, should only take about 5 minutes.
But Tikka isn't co-operative.
And am I competent?
Let's not even go there.
Brushing and nails complete, we move on stage three: the wet down.
Wetting her down is no easy task.
Why should it be?
She's so big, with so many layers of fur, that wetting her down takes a lot of time.
Add the random body shakes, and by the end, I'm just as wet as Tikka
And then, stage three: shampooing.
She was so dirty that the first bottle of shampoo barely raised a lather.
Which meant I had to turn to shampoo bottle number two.
And then half of a third bottle, complete with little red massager dodaddy (the only part Tikka truly enjoys) before we were able to manage this:
She really is all fur.
My father asked me why I didn't shave her.
She was shaved.
Once.
And was so humiliated she refused to come out of the house until some of her fur grew back.
Making pee and poop time even more challenging than it is most days.
So no.
She isn't shaved.
Stage four: rinsing the shampoo out of her fur was when her patience was near its end and the barking and whining commenced.
Luckily, I've listened to Mer and Em whine so often, and for so long, that I had absolutely no trouble tuning Tikka out.
Once I had all the shampoo out, and towel dried her as best I could, it was time to engage in stage five: the dryer.
I had considered letting her dry naturally.
Until I remembered that the back of the car, behind the dog gate, has all sorts of detritus from the dogs and wet dogs are the same as magnets, meaning all my effort would have been for nothing.
So drying her it was.
Once side at a time.
Brushing and massaging ultimately loosen hair, which means that when I turn the dryer on, hair literally blasts out of her.
And like everything else, drying takes time.
Even after an hour, she's still a little damp.
But dry enough to demagnetize her.
Another quick round with the brush and voila!
A fresh, clean, lighter, Tikka who cannot get out of the tub fast enough.
She's digging in my purse for treats.
She was disappointed.
And the MESS!
There was dog hair EVERYWHERE.
Wet, it just laid where it landed.
But the dryer doesn't just dry Tikka and eventually, while drying her, we were treated to hair swirling and falling like snow during a storm.
Dog hair in my purse, my hair, my shoes, my glasses were so coated I had to turn the dryer on them, the supplies were coated, her leash and collar were coated.
But Tikka could have cared less, as she pranced and paraded around the store her entire body yelling "FREEDOM! FREEDOM!"
I peeled off the vinyl apron, which protected my front, only to realize that bathing Tikka in weather where the humidex if 40 degrees means that I was drenched in the back.
Perhaps I should have jumped in the tub myself.
So for $20.00 I was able to brush, clip, wash, shampoo, rinse and dry Tikka.
In two hours.
I'd pay $30.00 to do this.
Because the thought of bathing her at home is just frightening.
Especially when you realize how much mess you make if you bath her the way she should be bathed.
This was the bay before Tikka:
And afterwards. . .
So happy I didn't have to clean up.
Again, I'd pay at least $30.00.
The clean up alone is worth it.
And a fresh, clean Tikka?
Priceless.
But that wasn't the end of the day's adventures.
That would just be hoping for too much.
I had my usual Saturday evening supper with Mum.
And Dad.
The menu.
Not beans.
Hot dogs and potato salad.
And for whatever reason, everyone wanted hotdogs last night.
So by the time I got there, two hot dogs remained.
Fine.
I only needed one.
And no potato salad.
Even better.
The heartburn it causes is excruciating.
Salad it was then.
Light, tasty butterscotch mousse for dessert.
While my father had a heaping plate of shepherd's pie, with green beans, carrots, and three new potatoes.
Whenever he's coming for a meal, Mum always has the kitchen put aside a lunch time meal for him.
Dinner was fine.
Afterwards. . .well. . .
Mum wanted to go outside.
Fine.
They headed for their usual spot in the back, along the river.
I was not excited, as this is the place where the staff hang out on their breaks and smoke like chimneys.
Resulting in the most disgusting, smelly, putrid ash can you could imagine.
As a longtime smoker, my father could care less how anyone feels about his smoking.
So off to the ash can we went.
Me knowing better than to say anything.
Alas, all the chairs were in use, the staff wanting to be outside and smoking.
My mother not wanting to sit with them.
So off we went in search of another spot.
My father proceeded to push her towards a little bench with a canopy over it.
The darkest, shadiest spot on the entire nursing home property.
Because my father will only sit in the shade.
My mother, a sun lover who freezes all winter was having none of that.
WHERE are you taking me????? she asks.
Not very nicely.
When my father shares his seating plan with her, she plants her feet on the ground, stopping the wheel chair and informs him in no uncertain terms that she is NOT sitting in the shade.
But he can, if that is what he so chooses to do.
My father sighs, and asks her where she wants to sit.
And she points to the sunniest, warmest spot at the front of the nursing home.
That is where she and I sat.
While my father sat across from us, in the shade.
Apparently, he takes medication that is not conducive to sun sitting.
My mother takes it, too.
When my father reminded her of this, she fixed an icy gaze upon him and replied,
I am almost 72 years old, I have to be inside all winter, freezing and if I want to sit in the sun, I will sit in the sun and it's none of your business.
And that was that.
My parents.
My children.
My husband.
Who is the most challenging depends solely upon the day.
And the adventures just continue.
This afternoon, Stephen and I taking Mum downtown to the King's Place Flea Market and then for a walk along the paved trails.
There will be no access to perfume counters.
But that won't make much difference.
Something will happen.
It always does.
Title Lyric: Just a Dog by Tindersticks
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