A few years back, my daughter played travel softball. When nationals came around, we would always board our German Shepherd, Miss Muffie, at The Spa. The place wasn’t really called The Spa, but the other parents from the team nicknamed it that because they were jealous of our pooch’s accommodations.
The spa was wonderful. Miss Muffie had a private, air-conditioned room with piped in music. We got to choose the music. Since she was of German descent, I opted for Mozart and Beethoven. I thought she would feel more at home with them. The spa had everything that a dog and, truthfully, most humans would want. There was a built-in pool on the premises, plus they had a gourmet chef and massage therapist on staff. Dogs participated in both outside and indoor organized play activities to facilitate group play and encourage camaraderie amongst the guests. I am not making that part up; that is what the brochure said.
I also elected to have special services for Muffie. I signed her up for “One-on-One” which was buddy time with a human companion, “The Pet Parlor” where she could lounge on a sofa and watch her favorite doggie movie, shiatsu massages to soothe her arthritic joints and specially made meals. I would sneak in many of these services, because to pay for them drove my husband crazy.
“How do we know they really do these things? You want to pay $6.50 for Muffie to watch a movie? How do you know if she even sees it? ” He would ask in his usual skeptical and somewhat exasperated tone.
“It’s in the brochure!” I would argue back. “It has to be true if they advertise it! Why would they lie about it?” He would usually just shake his head and walk away. He knew that Miss Muffie was like another baby to me. Since fate only gave me one human child, the dog became my canine child.
So, while we were sitting in ball fields in 100-degree weather, scarfing down hot dogs and pretzels, my dog was at the spa being treated to steak and broiled chicken in her air conditioned suite. And the bill for all this pampering: Well, let’s just say my daughter’s private school tuition seemed like a bargain after a week of dog pampering.
When LuLu came along, I sent both girls to the spa, but I cut down on the extras so my family and I could afford to do things—like eat. Finally, after Miss Muffie went to that big backyard in the sky and the softball years were over, we decided to use a pet sitter service for the times we had to travel without LuLu and our newest girl beast, Frankie.
Many people through the years mocked my pampering of my pooches, but I am not a rarity when it comes to spoiling my animals. Obviously, the spa had many a loyal customer. I had to book Muffie three-to-six months ahead to get a spot at the spa, and they took care of all animals—not just dogs. Pet owners like to spoil their animals, and they want them to be true members of their households—no matter what the cost.
My chiropractor has Stanky the pig. In his prime, Stanky weighed 220 pounds. He was supposed to be a pot belly pig and reach a maximum weight of about forty pounds, but obviously something went very awry. At one time, Stanky thought he was a dog. He would be in the backyard and see and hear the dogs from next door. They would bark, and Stanky would bark. Now, he no longer thinks he is a dog. Now, Stanky just thinks he is human.
Stanky has his own room, and he gets not only good table food but a special mix of pig food that my chiropractor has made and shipped to her house. Where my dogs think they are the babies in our family dynamic, Stanky is under the impression that he is the man of the house. He sleeps on my chiropractor’s bed and does not like other men coming into his territory.
