Self grooming.

We groom the dogs at home.

This has nothing to do with cost or being unable to tear ourselves away from the little darlings. We've self groomed ever since Digby, a PON from a previous generation, escaped from the fancy groomers in the centre of Avignon by slipping through two sets of heavy glass doors left open by an absent minded post lady. He then charged across a busy road ( bringing the traffic to a halt in the process ) and making a beeline into an adjoining church.

The Gothic church was dark. At the far end there was a funeral underway. Digby headed for the funeral. His master gave chase. The groomers from Le Chien Galant followed. The priest did his best to ignore the dog , its master and two flustered French ladies zig zagging down the nave.

A decade on Angus still occasionally wakes at night remembering what the priest said to him. It was decidedly non-sacerdotal. Digby was cornered in a side chapel and carried, squirming, out of the church. '' We've never had that happen before " said the grooming ladies. The memory of the mourners faces adds to the shame induced night sweats. After that Digby was christened ' demon dog'.

There are some experiences in life you never want to repeat but your conscience doesn't allow you to forget.

Bob gives me two minutes of his time on the grooming table before disappearing. His rump is thinned out.

Sophie squeals and squirms but makes no attempt to escape. She adores the attention. We get a carrier bag full of hair from her sides and front. She's slimmed down considerably. Before I can even out her right side she's off. The allotted time is up.  A more balanced cut will need to wait for another day.

After wards there are treats, tickles and free rein to explore the latest drainage ditch. Bob also gets a lengthy Mano a Mano to let him know he's done good. The PONs may look slightly squiify but they're happy and so is their master.