I mapquested the directions to the groomers and we set out with Bonnie at the handles and L-dawg at the leash.
Here is the aftermath:
|He asked for this shot|
It's always a bit nerve-wrecking when you're dealing with a new groomer. Same goes for a hair stylist of the human persuasion. You pretty much want a complete background check and a DNA sample before entrusting them with yourself or your canine.
You never know if they'll come back with a mohawk, a tongue ring and an arrogant swagger.
I have a perfect stylist at home in NS, but her work is one hour from the city. I had a brain wave (it happens) and decided to look for a stylist in Halifax. This girl I found gave me the worst cut (or probably my 2nd worse cut, as I've been given a rat tail in the past) and made me want to hibernate for 5 years and break every mirror in Canada.
After dropping off my boy, we wheeled to physio. Lindsay got to relax in the waiting room while Bonnie learned the ropes. I was so proud of her; she caught on so quickly...and she was so proud of me when she saw me flex and bench press a treadmill.
The problem today was my sugar.
Once again the diabetes reared its putrid face and started delivering uppercuts. Frankly my blood got a little insulted.
I texted Lindsay asking her to come in to the treadmill room, knowing full well she'd think there was a ginormous emergency and she'd have to bring a posse of medical staff with her.
Once she understood that my death was not imminent, she ran to get me some OJ. After I picked myself up off the floor and resumed normality, I began to amaze all eyes in the room with my stretching technique.
What I couldn't conquer today was the bike. The damn thing has something against me; that, or I was right about Carman. Perhaps there was a stationary bike meeting and they voted in favor of messing with me.
I have to plan a retaliation. If you have ideas, please advise.