I have an awesome dog named Amber.
Amber hates certain things.
She is afraid of our hardwood floors, for example. Combating the Scary Floor can be tedious at times; we must always have a collection of throw rugs strewn about, so that she can leap-frog from one safe area to another. We also must keep her nails impeccably trimmed so she is not slipping on her nails and thus avoiding further plunge into the abyss of neurosis.
Another of Amber’s fears, ironically, is the nail trimmer. You’d think that some connection would be made in her mind between Scary Nail Trimmer and the feeling of, “Hey! Scary Floor is less slippery!”, but — no. Every nail trimming session, regardless of the type of trimmer I purchase, is a hugely traumatic experience for both of us. She writhes and squirms like a piece of terrified gelatin.
Today, I had only just thought to myself that I ought to trim her nails, when she suddenly knew without a doubt that I was on my way to retrieve it. And this began the drama.
She didn’t just run away. She ran up the stairs and scrambled into the cubby space of my husband’s bedside table, and refused to come out until I had sufficiently displayed that I did not have the nail trimmer in either hand.
Never mind that as soon as she came out, I grabbed it off the bed and trimmed her nails.
But how else is she to continue walking on Scary Floor?!