Tag Archives: Pomeranians

Trixie Weighs In – all 13 pounds of her

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Right, people, listen up. Some of you may not know me. My name is Trixie and I’m in charge around here.

I am the emotional support dog attached to Wendy Welch. By which I mean, Wendy is my emotional support human. I have a few… neuroses, shall we say. Wendy helps me with my anxiety.

People ask, was I a rescue, because I am so anxious. Those people are clearly not well-informed on current events. If you’re not anxious, you’re not paying attention.

I work with Wendy at some food bank stuff. Once a week she goes to this place where people line up outside like an hour beforehand. And there’s a big guy with a big husky. The guy is really nice to me, but the husky has said some rude things I don’t appreciate. Mom puts my leash under a table leg and everybody talks nice to me. But it’s still a bit taxing on my nerves. So many people wanting to pet me, saying how cute I am. A dog likes to be taken seriously. Like the big husky barking her fool head off across the parking lot. (She has to wait over there because she doesn’t volunteer with the warehouse, see.) Nobody ever calls HER cute….

I can live with cute, though, when it comes to the other place with the food. Wendy works with a bunch of med students once a month. They cook meals for people in a rent-controlled housing facility. Everybody at the facility loves me. Naturally. When they call me cute, they slip me scraps of the chicken gumbo or whatever the med students are cooking. And when the students play ball with the kids, I get to play too. It’s fun to run around at the housing complex. It is a quarter mile to walk around the whole sidewalk circling the place, and I have run this MANY times with a group of kids. Once a bunch of people chased me because I slipped my harness. Good times.

So, it’s not all bad having an emotional support human. I’ll tell you more secrets later. For now, stay warm out there. I have a winter coat attached to me, but you people have to assemble yourselves to go out. That thing with your feet, weird. But do what you need to do. It’s all good.

Trixie’s Difficult Day Out

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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.