An Unexpected Turn
The puppy, who had set off alone, found its way, ironically to my door. Mother was in the back with the dogs and so I shuffled out onto the porch and picked up the tiny pup. “Where’s your home, little fella?” I asked. “I live down Grimhollow Lane,” said the pup. Her voice was playful and louder than I expected.
I hadn’t the heart to tell her how grim the little pups looked, with their patchy pigments peaking through their sheared fur, somehow stripping them of their grace. But it was never enirely ugly; It had a certain charm to it, the poodles shivering, our own dog scampering around at every buzz of shavers, even the furry rug of litter became a part of home to me, when I was away. One of those...
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Indeed, she felt no one could match the style her own masterful hands created with the dogs’ fur. The poor things would stumble out of mother’s “grooming room” as though they had narrowly escaped death, and subsequently walked around looking like hairy, depressed sea sponges. On top of that, I would find small tufts of dog hair so frequently that I was nearly driven to the brink of insanity.
Mrs. Hahn worked as the dog groomer for our little community. Every woman, costumed in bright sundresses and floofy summer hats, would carry their snappy little pups to her. Every woman except my mother. Mother was much more interested in shaving the dogs herself.
The Story Begins
How is it that, while childhood is upon us, it seems an endless torture. We seek adulthood, pursuing it like a fox in a hedge: always out of reach. Then, without truly realizing it, maturity has captured and held us so we may never return to those days that we now remember with such joy. But I digress. There is a tale I mean to tell here.