Suzanne Harrington: New adventures abound - Medellin, the dog-grooming parlour...

Suzanne Harrington. Pic: Denis Scannell

The two young males of our household are embarking on rival adventures. As the 19-year-old heads to the airport to catch a solo flight to Medellin, home of the Pablo Escobar walking tour, the lockdown rescue puppy – now a giant teenage German Shepherd – is going to the dog groomers for the first time.

To say I’m worried is an understatement. I’ve phoned the groomers twice already, to pre-warn them about all the things that trigger the dog: these include other dogs; people he doesn’t know; strange smells; loud noises; being touched; being brushed; scissors; new places; people wearing hats, masks or hi-vis; enclosed spaces; plastic bags; slamming doors; escalators; skateboards; seagulls. 

He has separation anxiety, proximity anxiety, crowd anxiety, and abandonment issues. He’s quite the panophobe. And he hates cats.

“There won’t be any cats,” says the groomer. She sounds a bit doubtful, even as she reassures me she’s used to dealing with nervous dogs.

I can hear her conferring with her manager. It will be a two-person job, she says. Wear oven gloves, I suggest. 

I don’t bother telling her about the time he got a grass seed embedded in his armpit and had to go under general anaesthetic at the vet’s because he wouldn’t let any of us near him to painlessly remove it with an eyebrow tweezer.

Four hundred quid later, he woke up a bit non-plussed. Although not as non-plussed as I was, calling out the long number on my card.

Bye, I say distractedly to the teenager at Departures. Have fun. Don’t join the cartel.

Then I race back down the motorway, the dog groomer’s manager on speaker phone. He’s very matted, he says. It’s going to take at least an extra hour. The manager has the same tone as a hairdresser when you’ve been doing your own roots with cheap bleach.

An hour later there’s another call. The dog is still not ready.

I half expect them to say that they will have to report the matter to social services, and am not sure how to respond, other than reiterate the oven gloves suggestion. There is lots of barking in the background.

He doesn’t seem to like being touched anywhere near his hind legs, they say. Neither would you, I think, if the last time anyone spent any time there was to castrate you.

Finally he’s finished. It has taken four hours, with the dog getting a lunch break in the middle so he doesn’t get hangry.

He emerges, shiny and flouncing, shaking his head like Beyonce.

There’s only half of him - the other half is on the grooming room floor. He’s been edited.

The manager lists all the treatments he’s had to separate him from his matted fur, kind of like a spa day crossed with a controlled explosion. Bring him back in 8 weeks, he says sternly.

The teenager texts en route to the former murder capital of the world.

I send a picture of the dog but he doesn’t seem that interested.