Doggie Dilemma

I may be "Polisher of the Nails" in our relationship, but Suzanne is most definitely "Trimmer of the Nails". No silly, not mine. The dogs'. I guess she would more accurately be termed "Trimmer of the Claws." And thank God she is willing to wear that mantle, because I cannot.

I. Cannot. Do. It. Period.

I'm absolutely, positively terrified of cutting the claws too close and causing the poor puppers to bleed to death... or at the very least, yelp in agony and then leave little spots of blood with every step while I find the stupid styptic powder made for just such abuse accidents. Yes, I'm speaking from experience. And the betrayal and reproach in the dog's eyes is that much worse because you know you deserve it.

Dudley, the world's most perfect basset hound, is actually quite patient with having his claws trimmed. Sure, he'll cast a doleful look or two at you... but he's a basset and such looks are part of his charm. Pixie, the world's most manic boxer/greyhound/min pin/terrier/whatever the hell else she might be, will simply not tolerate it. We know almost nothing of her life experience prior to when we adopted her, but somewhere, somehow, our little Pixie developed a serious aversion to being restrained.

From the moment Suzanne first attempted to hold her paw (simply as a gentle, steadying guide in preparation of applying the trimmers), Pixie went apeshit. Me trying to hold her made it worse, not better. So, time goes by and Pixie's claws continue to grow. Because she is such a dainty (read: skinny) thing, her claws could substitute for razorblades. The habitual enthusiasm with which she greets us after work has literally drawn blood. (Well, not just us.)

A vet we once spoke with suggested purchasing all-natural Ultra Calm Biscuits from Doctors Foster & Smith. She assured us it was safe and effective, saying it made dogs look "a little stoned." Hell, I think she even used the word "nonchalant." She swore by it. Woohoo! Pixie being safely, all naturally nonchalant about having her nails trimmed is just what the doctor ordered. And therefore what we ordered.

First we gave her a trial run of one biscuit, although her weight calls for 2 to 4 biscuits. She ate it like any other treat... then seemed depressed as hell for the rest of the night. Not "stoned." Not "nonchalant." Depressed. Sad, lacking in appetite and affect, apathetic. Call me crazy, but I don't consider "apathetic" and "nonchalant" synonyms. We were disappointed to say the least. And borderline horrified that we had destroyed our sweet little girl's personality. She rebounded the next day, of course, back to the barking, bounding brat that scratches the FUCK out of our arms and legs on a regular basis.

Stalemate.

When Suzanne went to her mother's for a week, I thought I would try again. I mean, if Pixie had to be a depressed, apathetic creature for an evening it would be better if Suzanne didn't have to experience it. So I gave her two biscuits this time, mentally apologizing as she chomped her "treats", and waited for the slump. And waited. And waited some more. Yet she didn't slump. If anything, she was a little more hyper than normal - like when you give Ritalin to a kid that doesn't have ADHD. Trimming her nails was out of the question.

So, the claws grow on. We're afraid to take Pixie to our vet to let her do the trimming. I can't imagine our vet (wonderful lesbian that she is) being successful without using extra staff and restraints, with the consequence that Pixie would be even more resistant the next time. I suppose the vet could drug her, but now I'm scared of that option, too. Scared of how Pixie will react to the medication, and scared of the expense of office visits and procedures for something as basic as claw-trimming for the duration of Pixie's life.

So far, the most success we've experienced in dealing with Pixie's Nightmare on Elm Street imitation is deterring her from jumping up when we come through the door. It's not doing much for the minute scratches on our leather sofa, but at least our arms are healing.

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