| Sunny Side Up Feb. 25, 2004 �2003, Kathleen Gibson Mindy's makeover magic The Preacher and I own a small dog. Mindy, our mostly Lhasa Apso, is nearly fifteen now. She behaves impeccably; sleeps a lot. And has the character of milk pudding. Sweet, bland. Not in the least memorable, for the most part. We love her nonetheless. I don't write about her much because she's a good dog, and old. Good old dogs don't get a lot of press. In summer, the neighbours' young grandchildren step over to visit her, eager for exuberant puppy ways. I remind them that she's nearly 97 years old in doggy years. Their eyes widen. They pet her with something akin to reverence. "Careful," says the older to the younger, "she's an old lady dog. Be nice." Mindy has hair. Long hair. Several times a year it grows past her eyes. She starts slinking around like a shadow with an identity crisis. I call her Moptop, Fluffystuff, Ragbag, and watch carefully that I don't offer treats to the wrong end. Moses the cat, like most males, loves to run his paws through all that silky hair. He sneaks up on the poor old thing, fires out one paw and grabs a handful of whichever part is currently floating in the breeze. Mindy yelps and launches out of her space faster than any senior citizen has license. Triumphant Moses remains, holding part of her tail. Consequently, when I find pieces of Mindy hanging around the carpet and the corners, but not Mindy herself, I know it's time to visit the dog groomer. Mindy slinks out the door for her hairdresser appointment. Goes down the front stairs carefully. It takes two tries to jump into the car, where she immediately curls up on the passenger seat and starts snoring. But things are different later in the day. The car door opens. Out hurtles a small speckled bombshell. She dashes around the yard several times, stops to water something. Bounds up the stairs, two at a time. Her extremities don't look alike anymore. Down south, a dashing plume curves over a sleek body. Up north are two gleaming black eyes, and in them is a spark of something truly rare�mischief. Moses is caught off guard. At the sight of his renewed house-mate he puffs up to twice his size, walks sideways on tippy-claws and thrashes his tail. I can almost read his mind. "I don't like it. It smells like Herbal Essence and it's bouncing around like Tigger. On my turf. No siree, we are not happy." Mindy, for once, cares not a fig what the cat thinks. She prances over and swipes a newly manicured paw across his back. Once, twice. Thrice. Adds a bounce and a nip for good measure. The cat flees. Ah, the magic of makeovers. I've seen the same thing happen to friends when they've allowed Jesus Christ to give them a spiritual makeover. Their eyes reflect an inner light. They bounce. And the enemy flees. You can respond to this column at [email protected] |