Chapter One Hundred Sixty-Four: Ma’am & Huckleberry is Fucked….

So I took Buddy the dog to the groomer. We have been going there for a while. I come to collect him and see a vanilla-looking George Stephanopoulos-type guy standing there in loafers, no socks, and khakis rolled up screaming into the phone.”Huckleberry is fucked!” I being the person I am, having a Ph.D. in diarrhea of the mouth announce to the sockless loafer-wearing millennial that:” I wanted to name our son Huckleberry. But, because of our RIDICULOUSLY long and hard-to-pronounce last name, Confused Husband vetoed it on the merits that he would be beaten up during recess on the playground because of his length of the equator-sized moniker. Plus, he would be late starting his SATs because it would take him a good hour to fill in all the bubbles for his name. I then shared that my next choice was Atticus. “
Loafer man just glares at me and continues bellowing into the phone: “Huckleberry is FUCKED!” It sounds like the title of an 80’s Grunge band or tragic novel. I wonder how is Huckleberry fucked and why, and who did the fucking? I turn to the person at the front desk and inquire if: “Buddy is fucked as well?” She looks at me and says: “I don’t think so.” But, somehow she doesn’t sound so sure. She calls downstairs on the intercom to have them bring Buddy up to me. Smiling she informs me that Buddy’s haircut is a whopping $160.00 bucks!

I begin my mantra of: “Buddy is fucked.” (Sounds way cooler when you say Huckleberry is fucked.) But, I am actually the one fucked because of the outrageous price. I say rather loudly:” That’s way more than I pay for my hair!” I feel the millennial’s judgy eyes on me sizing up my hair. I explain that:” I am having a bad hair day and could not be judged on this one particular viewing. But, that on a good day, my hair didn’t cost that much, and looks fabulous!” She announces there are several add-ons such as breed, matting, etc… I retort that Buddy is a mutt and cannot be penalized for this, that I find it highly discriminating. I also point out, that Buddy wasn’t matted as he is brushed ALL of the time, and he is a small dog not a Great Dane for goodness sake!” Huckleberry’s father joins in saying: “Yes! Same with Huckleberry!” We make eye contact! Partners in the Good-fight! I nod and he nods back. I envision us creating the “Huckleberry is fucked foundation.” Holding seminars on how not to get fucked over by your dog groomer. I write a best-selling book about it. Yes, Huckleberry is fucked, definitely has legs.

Buddy is brought up to me. There are whispers about what to do by the employees, as I have REFUSED to pay such a fee! I hear snippets of: “Breed fee, a matting disclaimer.” Huckleberry’s father and I stare at each other. I hold onto Buddy for dear life as I realize they haven’t brought Huckleberry up yet. Perhaps they will hold him for ransom? At this thought, I attempt to mouth to Huckleberry’s dad: “Where is Huckleberry?!” He doesn’t understand what I am trying to mouth to him. I scootch closer and loudly whisper: “Where is Huckleberry?” at this question I see the panic rise in him like a wave. He looks ashen and puckers his lips like a fish.

Wide-eyed he croaks: “I want Huckleberry!” The employees stop whispering and look at him. I wonder if he is about to ask for proof of life like in the Meg Ryan, Russel Crow movie. I visualize Huckleberry holding up a newspaper with today’s date. I don’t even know what Huckleberry looks like but I imagine he is cartoon-like.
The intercom buzzes and Deep Throat on the other end inform the desk people to omit the add-ons from Buddy’s bill. I feel empowered. That is more like it! Next to me, Huckleberry’s father asks: “What about Huckleberry?” More whispers and a huddle of discussion occur. I pay, yet feel that I must stay and see the safe return of Huckleberry. I take Buddy and mill about feigning interest in organic butt wipes for one’s pooch.
Huckleberry is brought up. The hair on his head looks like a Tupperware bowl was placed on his noggin and his crooked bangs were trimmed around that. He resembles one of the characters from Dumb and Dumber. Huckleberry’s dad is on the verge of tears. He shockingly says:” Do you have a blind groomer down there? He looks like he just had surgery, not a haircut!” I nod my head in agreement. Huckleberry looks rough. Miss Millennial explains that:” Huckleberry moved a lot during the grooming. The groomer was basing his haircut on the picture you sent him. (I NEED to see this picture!) Huckleberry’s dad announces: “I am NOT paying a penny for this! He looks RIDICULOUS!” Again, Huckleberry’s dad is screaming: “Huckleberry is fucked!” I nod in support. On top of the astronomical fee. The haircut is a disaster as well.
Deep Throat announces via the intercom that Huckleberry’s cut is on them. I exit the groomer with Huckleberry’s dad. I attempt to convince him that Huckleberry looks a little punk rockerish with his new do, a slight resemblance to Sid Vicious. I notice people giving Huckleberry a double-take. I look down at Buddy who just looks adorable. I suggest out loud that we start a “Huckleberry is fucked foundation.”

I sense from Huckleberry’s dad that he is no longer interested in forging a foundation with me. Cracks begin to show in our once united front as he speed walks away from me. I shout after him in unity.: “Huckleberry is fucked!” I do the Wakanda forever sign and skip down the street happily knowing that Buddy wasn’t fucked…