Bobby, here.

This is how I look when I come back from the groomer. Mrs. D. likes me to look like this. The way I look is of no consequence to me, however.

Going to the groomer is a real drag. You sit in a cage for hours and listen to other dogs complain. They give you a bath. You sit in the cage some more. By this time, you really have to pee, but they are not done yet. You have to stand on a table and get brushed and combed and trimmed and brushed and combed and trimmed and brushed and combed and trimmed, all this time you have to go pee and the other dogs are whining and carrying on. What a waste of a day.

This morning Mrs. D. got on the phone, and I could tell what she was talking about. Now I am under the sofa. Way, way back, where she can't reach. I am not coming out.