Yesterday when I got home from work, the house was empty with the exception of the dog and cat. I decided, for some odd reason, that it was the perfect time to clip the dog's toenails. Perhaps it was because the clippers were in the same drawer as the scissors I was looking for to snip the end off of my icy pop. No, the scissors and dog nail clippers were not touching, as that would be gross.
So, there I was, wearing the dress I had worn to work, preparing to give the dog a pedicure on the living room floor. The first three feet were a breeze, she didn't mind at all. The front left paw, however, is a different story. That paw is the paw she licks ALL THE TIME, despite me spraying it with some sort of anti-lick potion that obviously does not work. In other words, that paw is apparently tender, or magical, or something, and she didn't want me to go near it with the clippers. I was not going to leave the dog with some nasty looking, 3/4 finished pedicure. I wouldn't paint the nails on my toes and one hand, leaving the other hand to look sad and bedraggled and I wasn't going to allow my dog to walk around that way either.
If you had entered the living room at the time of the last paw nail-cutting, this is what you would have seen: a 26-year old woman in a dress sitting atop an Australian shepherd dog who is writhing and twisting to escape the wrath of the nail cutter. Jammer escaped multiple times and I grabbed her by the back legs so she couldn't run away. The sofa sectional is subsequently stumbled into and separated into two pieces. My foot is wedged under the coffee table and the dog is using her untrimmed toenails to drag herself by one leg away from me. The poor cat is sitting atop the sofa with a concerned look on his face.
The dog breaks free, leaving me a wrecked contortion of a person on the floor with an assortment of clippings stuck to my bare leg. (Now is the time I wish I would've turned the air conditioning on before striking out on this endeavor.) This battle continues for at least another ten minutes, rolling and twisting across the living room floor, me jumping up to get a better hold on the dog, the dog turning into a boneless, flailing beast that is able to thwart my every grip. Finally, Jammer breaks free. We are left looking like two gunfighters in a duel at high noon: the dog panting, sitting on one side of the chaise lounge and me, pissed off and looking like a hot mess on the other side of the chaise. It was time to bargain.
Me: Now listen, I'll give you a treat. Do you want a treat?
Jammer: [head cocked to the side, liking the sound of the word treat, proceeds to jump excitedly onto the chaise]
Me: I see you want the treat. You can't have it until you let me cut your other nails. Come here and sit down. [all this is said in my sweetest possible voice, though I'm sure it was said through clenched teeth and I was all the while prepared to lunge across the chaise and grab the bitch by the collar - literally, she's a bitch, I wasn't really being that derogatory]
Jammer: [turns head to other side, begrudgingly gets down from the chaise and sits next to me as if it was no big deal at all]
Me: You realize that if I weren't overjoyed by your agreement I'd be extremely pissed that you didn't just agree to letting my cut your damned nails, which I've been trying to do for 25 fucking minutes, before I mentioned the word treat.
Jammer: [again, looks at me because all she heard was "blah blah blah treat"]
I proceed to cut her nails while she sits unbothered. After I have finished she takes off like a rocket into the kitchen where the treats are stowed in a cupboard. She is no worse for the wear, while I am a sweaty mess of dress and flesh and dog hair. If this isn't considered parenthood, then you can go fuck yourself.