When we get to the dog-groomer, the doge's near-chipper attitude (chipper for her, anyway) takes a sharp right turn into alarm as she figures out where we are and why we're here. The person-in-a-muppet-costume of a dog lying in front of the door doesn't help matters, adding physical bulk to the already existential panic the dog is currently undergoing. Coco braces all four legs at the door and has to be (gently) dragged inside.
"Sorry, she really doesn't like anything," I call after the groomer as he picks her up and carries into the back to get her nails trimmed.
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One year ago: Presbyopia
Two years ago: Plowing
Three years ago: Leaners
Four years ago: Scent of Home
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