If you could make your pet understand one thing, what would it be?
You look beautiful when you let us brush you.
Some households do Friday night footy. We do Friday night brush the dog (I know — we live on the edge).
Our dog has a beautiful coat — dark on top, but with a reddish undercoat that shows through like natural streaks. People comment on it all the time. A staff member at our local café once looked at her and said, “A lot of us would pay a fortune to have hair like that.”
The only catch is that she’s a long-hair border collie, which means her coat is also a magnet for knots. If we leave them, they become a problem, and then we have to cut them out with scissors. That’s when she ends up with the canine equivalent of a bowl cut. No-one wants this. Not her. Not us. Not the café staff who praise her “highlights.”
You’d think ten minutes a week would be easy. She disagrees.
She doesn’t bite, but she does try to nip the brush, as if she’s saying, “Absolutely not,” while also trying to remain polite.
So it has become a two-person operation. I hold her head and run a steady stream of propaganda: You’re so beautiful. This is going to feel better. Everyone will admire you. Think of the café compliments.
My wife goes in from the rear like a professional. Brush. Brush. Pause for diplomatic negotiations. Brush again.
And then — every single week — it happens. We finish, she steps away, shakes herself out, and suddenly the coat sits right. The dark fur falls into place, the knots are gone, and those reddish streaks come through perfectly. For thirty glorious seconds she looks exactly like the dog people stop in the street to admire.
Then she trots off as if nothing happened, entirely unimpressed, as though beauty is simply her baseline and we’re the weirdos with a Friday night ritual.
I’d just love her to understand one thing: this isn’t a mugging. It’s a makeover. And we’re on your side.
The Afterword 
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