Ode to Maria

Here I am on a Friday night, sitting in my mostly unpacked, uber-chaotic office, laboriously composing an e-mail to our real estate agent, outlining sales strategies for two competing, ridiculously insulting, bottom-fishing offers. Hey, Everybody loves a bargain--except when you are the one doing the selling.

On another note, Dog got groomed today. I am so crazy that I drove him one hour (ok, I missed an exit and that took a little extra time, but still) to see the one and only groomer that he loves/tolerates/will not bite.

Maria!

Maria! Is that not a beautiful name?! Maria! Doesn't just saying "Maria" make you happy? Maria oozes Italian-style over-the-top, smothering love and kisses and the best meatballs made of real breadcrumbs and fresh herbs and a smiling, plump woman who would rather feed you than do anything else on earth, even shopping a sale at Bloomingdale's or getting a pedicure. Maria is the name of a giver, a goddess, a saint!

Ave Maria!

This is how awesome she is--Maria called me on my cell-phone today, mid-groom.

"Oh, %@#*," I thought, as my Meatloaf, "Paradise by the Dashboard Light" ringtone blared, and I, like a bad daja vu nightmare, flashed back to all the other times I was emergency-called by various groomers:

"You have to come and pick up your dog. He is too anxious. We cannot continue the grooming," said in a very Slavic, no-nonsense accent by a groomer at the fanciest, most shi-shi dog salon in town. Lesson: You can't buy love.

and then, when I thought we had finally found the perfect grooming salon...

"Your dog has bit the groomer! We must have his rabies vaccination papers immediately! Otherwise your dog will have to be quarantined."

Quarantined? Dog, who had never been left alone more than five hours in his entire life? (and, in Dog's defense, whenever I told anyone this story, the people who knew his sweet, loving nature all responded in the same incredulous way, "What did the groomer DO to HIM?!" Thank Dog, for all our loyal friends.)

Which resulted in a frantic search for Dog's vaccination papers and a confusion about where he had his shots (at the regular vet or the Humane Society where he was "fixed"?) And, then, as soon as the Rabies issue was resolved, or perhaps, even a little bit before if I'm being totally honest, my thoughts were not with the poor maimed groomer, but with my own narcisstic self interests:

"NOW who will I get to groom the damned dog?"

And, later, upon hearing this story, my brother in Virginia, a big, tough man of few words, but lots of sweet affection for his own spoiled Shitzu,

recounted his own groomer horror stories and the words of wisdom that made me feel slightly less guilty,

"There are two kinds of groomers--the quick and the bandaged."

Then the sky opened up and the light shone from the heavens and we found Maria! Maria, who is obviously quick, and loves dogs (she has a bunch of litlte fluffy-type dogs--I can't remember how many) And the first time we saw her, she sat on the floor with Dog for fifteen minutes and talked to him in this soothing, hypnotic voice and and fed him little bits of beef jerky while he licked her face.

She picked Dog up (and he usually won't let anyone but me pick him up) and carried him into the grooming area. And he didn't let out the teeniest squeal or cry. Relief--Dog in good hands.

Still, when the call came in from Maria on my cellphone, I was understandably panicked. This was our last chance groomer. If Dog bit Maria, then where would we go, what would we do?

"Hi, Kathy."

"Yes."

"It's Maria. I just wanted to let you know that Sunny is a little matted and we will have to give him a closer cut than last time. Is that ok?"

Is that ok?! That is wonderful! Fabulous! Great news!

"Just do what you have to do."

Ode and Big Tip to Maria!