I left out a big part of our trip to London in my last blog, because I felt it deserved its own post.
Yes. It’s that frickin awesome.
When we were walkIng from Borough tube station to the Tate Modern, I got a text from my mum. With the words that are enough to strike fear into a grown woman’s heart.
“Can you call me please?”
My first thought is: “I didn’t do it.” Whatever ‘it’ is, it definitely wasn’t me. My second thought is: “Has something bad happened?” But both these thoughts quickly disappear, as I turn to the real worry. “What has Mort done?”
I quickly call her. And I hear “Now, don’t be mad…”
YES. Whatever it is, it isn’t my fault.
Turns out mum needed have worried. Because she’d only gone and done the best blimmin thing ever. Her and my dad and sister had achieved the impossible.
They clipped Mort’s claws.
I can’t even begin to put into words what a nightmare it is trying to clip Mort’s claws. He’s never been a huge fan, but the problem with Mort is that he is too flipping clever and his memory is too good. So every time, he remembers what claw clipping is. He remembers he doesn’t like it. And then he remembers that he REALLY doesn’t like it. And then he remembers to get angry.
We’d tried everything. Putting a tea towel over his head. Making a makeshift muzzle with a piece of bandage. Cuddling him and whispering soothing words into his ear. None of it worked. He still turned into a rabid, frothing, ticked off beast.
At Crufts we decided enough was enough. We turned to the experts. A nice man sold us a contraption that apparently was a ‘miracle worker’. I can’t remember for the life of me what this thing is called, but I’ve come up with my own snappy name for it.
A big lying piece of plastic.
According to the nice man, this spinning nail-file type thing is practically silent and gently grinds the claw down. Apparently it is amazing – it works on really nervous and aggressive dogs. The box had a picture of an intimidating Rottweiler on it, just to prove it.
Turns out salesmen lie. Who’d a thunk it?
The minute I got this thing home and pressed the on-switch, Mort ran from the sofa, to the top of the garden, and hid shaking under a tree until I had hid the whirring monster somewhere safe.
We tried several times, thinking that he might just need to get used to it. But every attempt inspired varying degrees of utter terror, so we gave up.
And I slightly gave up hope. I began thinking that his claws would start to curl round, and we would end up one of those terrifying animal related stories that pop up every day on the Daily Mail website.
So how did my family do it? Witchcraft? Black magic? Voodoo?
They took him to a groomers.
That’s right. They took him to an actual stranger. As we all know, Mort isn’t massively keen on people he doesn’t know. I hate to break it to you all – if he met any of you in the street, he would give you a verbal dressing down. Maybe he didn’t like they way you walked. Maybe it was the way you talked. Maybe it was your face. Either way, if you’re a newbie, you end up knowing just how much Mort believes in the phrase ‘stranger danger’.
I thought introducing a foreign person to the mix would make the situation worse. Turns out I completely underestimated how good groomers are. This lady knew what she was doing: muzzle on, claws clipped, done. No messing.
What. A. Relief.
And check out those trotters! Puppy looks sharp.
And a big thanks to my family. As a sign of my appreciation I’m going to give you all a special present. You get to take Mort to the groomers every time he needs his claws cut!
No need to thank me.