We held our annual Hogmanay party last night, from 6-8 pm, to celebrate the Scottish New Year (which happens at 7 pm Eastern Standard Time). In preparation for the party, we vacuumed, did the dishes, hid a few items of clutter upstairs in the guest room, and got our wee dog Trixie a grooming appointment.

Trixie came to us via friends who had three Pomeranians and said she was not living her best life in company of other dogs. A lot of her nervous traits disappeared or reduced once she became Queen Canine, and since she was happy to be ruled by the cats, especially our matriarch Molly, Trixie fit in right away. She cuddled on Jack’s lap, slept on my legs, and enjoyed her new digs and lifestyle very much. As per protocol, after about two months of her living the high life, we figured she needed the matted bits cut out from behind her ears, and could benefit from a wee bath.

We kinda wanted to show her off, too, our new cute fuzzy girl, so we made her grooming for the day of the Hogmanay party. Two hours after dropping her off, the phone rang.

“We can’t touch her. She’s terrified. Sweetest little thing, never tried to bite any of us, but she’s miserable and she’s wet herself and pooped everywhere and we’re not going to be able to groom her.”

I raced back, and our poor baby sat cowering in the corner of the kennel. I put my hands in, and she licked me, allowing me to pull her into a shoulder ride embrace.

“It’s okay, Mommy’s here,” I crooned as she shivered against my shoulder. The groomer, whose name was Courtney, could not have been nicer – or more knowledgeable about dogs. She suggested that Trixie would have PTSD and associate this dark and dreadful day with being groomed, so from here on out, we should do it at home. Courtney wrote down what equipment to get and what to do with it once it arrived, and then gave Trixie one gentle pat on the head. She also offered to spray her with perfume, as our wee girl not only hadn’t been groomed, but now smelled like poop.

We decided not to subject her to any more fearsome treatments, so instead of taking home a powder puff in a Christmas kerchief, I carried our smelly, matted baby girl to the car. Where she cheered up immediately.

That night, our guests arrived and cooed over Trixie, who after a few false starts allowed them to pet her, licking their hands. I saw one of the guests give a quick sniff as Trixie passed by, and couldn’t help laughing before telling the story of Trixie’s difficult day out.

The guests began baby talking her, offering tidbits of chicken and little dog snacks from the bag we keep on the table, telling her what a brave wee soul she was, how terrible it must have been, but she was safe now, did she want another doggie treat?

We now think Trixie planned the whole thing. She enjoyed the party very much. So did her admirers, and so did we.