Off The Top of My Head

Today while I was in the shower, I heard a noise, which with bathroom acoustics being what they are, I took either for sixteen cats purring in the bathroom or Seal Team Six landing a squadron of helicopters on the roof.

Having dealt closely with cats before, I was hoping for a Seal Team Meet and Greet, when I realized the sound was coming from what I call the Captain’s “Public Appearance Basket.” This is the caddy that holds his assorted shavers and is as organized as Arnold Palmer's golf bag.

Why is it that men need a separate electric device to groom each individual body part? Give me a plastic Bic disposable and I can be Barbie-doll smooth in ten minutes. I’ve shaved my legs in a moving car, with one leg in the bathroom sink, and flamingo-style in a wading pool surrounded by toddlers who were probably compromising water purity the entire time.

The Captain has an electric razor with more whirling blades than the Marquis de Sade’s torture chamber, a streamlined razor-type thingy to handle smaller land masses such as peninsulas and the ever-popular soul patch area, and a tiny precision shaver that I’m pretty sure is for his belly button.

Why one man, even one who is covered in fur from stem to stern, needs more grooming tools than a prizewinning Poodle is beyond me. Luckily he keeps his winter coat, because if we had to plug in a device to shave that chest, it would short out every television on the block and have Black Ops fans pounding our door with video game controllers.

In the old days, before the kids were teenagers, the Captain had something we called “hair” which he styled with with an intricate device known to adults as a "comb." Now he has “ears” which are to a shaved head what pebbles are to a sand garden.

He has a shaver that is the grooming equivalent of a Zamboni that I use to prepare his head for public viewing. After the bloodletting incident of ’09, we developed a plan called “Good God, What Have You Done!” and he handles the delicate ear area with a tiny weedeater designed especially for the purpose.

At least in my new role as “ The Barber of Severe,” I’m learning a whole new approach to language. To me, “Buzz Off” means “Keep Out of My Airspace.” To the Captain, it’s just another haircut.

A Dog's Life

“Mom! He’s poisoning the dog again.”

Son Two’s voice dripped with injustice.

It was one of those days. I dropped my belongings in a pile by the door and let the recliner draw me in like it had a La-Z-Boy certified tractor beam.

“He’s just licking my foot.” Son One grinned as Bo tickled his ivories.

“Last time he did that he was sick all over the living room. It looked like a CSI biology experiment.”

“If you ever uncovered your feet he might lick yours. You’ve had the same socks on since 1993. There's enough gunk on the bottom to make you two inches taller.”

“At least I wear socks. Your shoes squish when you walk like they belong to Spongebob.”

The big dog paused and looked around the room as if polling the audience. Sure, he lifts his midnight snacks from the litter box, but a face that sweet shouldn’t have to stoop to this level for friendship.

“Come here, Sweetheart.” I called the big Lab over to sit by me. Nothing makes a bad day better like a hug from somebody who doesn’t care if you’ve borrowed his razor.

With a regretful glance, Bo strolled over to my chair, heaved the remains of his day of foraging at my feet, then looked up expectantly, waiting for a treat.

Figures. Dog logic dictates that when the stomach empties, it's time to put more inside. Human logic states that when the chips are down and you think nothing else can go wrong, the dog will throw up.

I think I'll get a ferret.