BEFORE SUMMER CAME SPRING: A TIME FOR RENEWAL AND HOUSE CLEANING. For this and other reasons I decided to take Gus to the groomers.

I’m not a groomed man myself. When I am (rarely) described in the press, the adjectives “grizzled” and “shaggy” invariably come into it. Frankly I don’t understand whom grooming is for, who might be impressed.

But with Gus it was time. High time, according to people near and dear. A note about smell: Apparently the smell of one’s dog is much like one’s own—more attractive to oneself than to others. While I cuddled up with the furry guy, enjoying the aromatic version of comfort food, others held a different view. I accept this.

Additionally, during Gus’s almost regular brushings, I noticed a number of small, hockey puck-like fur formations under the ear—and more important, in the kilt; for a dog, as for a grenadier, there is such a thing as turnout.

Something I have noticed about grooming establishments is that, unless you go all poodle-and-rhinestone about it, most are small storefront affairs run by a harried woman who does everything. Our local groomer was no exception. She was in the process of blow-drying a small quivering mop when we arrived. A compact woman with an aspect of forbearance, she wore a bandage on one arm—nipped by a client, so she said.

To the rear of the place, where the milk cooler would have stood when it was a grocery, sat a deep stainless steel tub, like a place where cowhides are tanned, with a leash attached to an I-bolt in the wall. Because Gus weighs 75 pounds, it was up to me to place him in this container.

Well, dear God. It wasn’t only that he struggled physically, but the sounds that came out of him, not to mention the moral indignation, were beyond all. Suddenly it was the Inquisition and he was being shown the instruments—only, whereas you or I might have shrieked, “Recant! I recant!” Gus’s desperate plea came out more like “WARLMPH! WARLMPH!”

What a wuss. Then the squeaking began, that almost metallic sound he produces from the glottis whenever he wants to let you know he is deeply moved or hurt.

I was buying none of it. I’d seen these tactics before. I explained the issue to the groomer, who’d seen so many dogs she dreamt about them. She smiled and muttered something like, “Whatever.”

And then I left him. I did, I did leave the building. I wasn’t putting up with this sort of crap from man or beast. Oh, you should have seen the look he gave me.

I wandered. I peered into store windows full of flowers. Spring was in my head. Then I began to think what spring meant to a man being of a certain species, of a certain age. New sights and smells? With the same tedious thoughts and habits I had last winter? Renewal? Ha! Tell that to my hip!

Eventually I decided it was time to face the groomer. I reached within, at most, 50 feet of the establishment when I heard him: “WARLMPH! WARLMPH!” Why had I inflicted this on Gus? Was he a canine sacrifice to my human spring fetish?

When I entered, he was being blow-dried. She was fluffing his fur, which he liked. He didn’t seem any the worse off. “He’s a sweetie,” she said. “He started barking about two minutes before you arrived.”

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