We're not chickens. Why do we get plucked?

Well, the rumors turned out to be true. Those sweet cajoling voices we've been hearing had just one result in mind: the dreaded plucking. You'd think we'd get used to it -- the removal of at least a pound of fur from each of us when our coats get too wooly.


A pound from Jake.

And a pound from Just Harry.

To be fair, since I, Jake, almost had a seizure the last time I went to a professional groomer a few years ago --before JH -- Dogdad has taken it on himself to do the job. And the process -- plucking as much as we can stand on our uppersides then clipping our undersides and finishing off with a final trim -- is accompanied with lots of treats and sweet talking -- but yikes!!! Just Harry and I are almost nekkid now.

First me, Jake, none too happy, but pretty stoic...

Then Just Harry, wondering if this really is necessary. His fur is very different from mine. Mine is extra thick; his is thin, so two minutes after he is combed, he looks unkempt again. But his jacket is more wiry than mine, so maybe he's a more typical wire.

I rationalized the procedure this time as a means of looking swell for my forthcoming date with Asta Marie. (Yep, you heard me right -- I, Mr. Poster Child of Bachelorhood, have a date with the very selective Ms. Asta Marie!! )



But poor Just Harry here is looking very sharp just to carry on with the same old same old daily routine. Perhaps that gray cat we saw the other day will look at him with new respect. Who knows. Or one of you ladies out there???






All I can say is, unlike grass, which grows so fast here in South Florida in the summer that you can actually see it grow, our jackets better slow down so we don't have to endure this for another few months.


Sigh!!!

DON'T FORGET TO KEEP ON BARKING FOR JACKSON AS HE UNDERGOES HIS SURGERY TOMORROW. POWER TO THE PAW. WE LOVE YOU PAL!!!

Jake