Henry, being a Shih-Tzu, requires lots of haircuts. He was in the middle of one last night when Joey and I decided we’d better take him to PetSmart to get his nails trimmed and all the hair pulled out of the inside of his ears. (It’s rough being a dog.)

Henry really likes PetSmart, but he hates going to the grooming salon. I’d do it myself bu I get so nervous trimming his nails that he gets nervous and wiggles a lot. Then, of course, I wind up quicking him and he bleeds and cries; it’s bad.

So there we were walking into PetSmart with a half shaved dog. Poor Henry looked ridiculous, his front half was all shorn close to his body and his legs and back half (predominantly the left side of bum) were still long and fluffy so waddled when he walked.

As we neared the grooming salon, Henry stopped walking. He planted his little paws on the tile floor and tried, to no avail, to stop himself from the inevitable.

Since the floor was tile and he had no traction, I pulled him into the salon where he sat in the corner, trying to hide.

When it was Henry’s turn, he walked woefully over to the groomer and sat gargoyle-still on the grooming table. He looked at me with large, pathetic eyes.

“Oh, you’re fine.” I reassured him. He didn’t even blink.

Henry was such a good boy. He didn’t cry, he didn’t wiggle…he didn’t even move while the groomer clipped his front two paws. Then, as the groomer moved to his back leg Joey suddenly cried out, “HEY! Henry, that’s gross!”

“What?” I asked, and the groomer looked around to see what he’d missed.

On the floor by his foot was a fairly substantial piece of Henry poo.

“Henry!” I gasped, “Don’t poo on the groomer!”

Henry looked guilty, scared, sheepish all at the same time. The poor groomer picked up Henry’s little present and threw it away.

Joey and I decided we’d vacate the premises just in case Henry went to the bathroom on the groomer again. We didn’t want to be around to see it.

We found ourselves in the dog toy section and Joey stopped us in front of a large display of American Kennel Club toys. Henry formerly had the chipmunk and absolutely loved it but, alas, I hid it somewhere and now I can’t find it.

“Let’s get Henry a new toy to replace Chippy. You know, for all of his pain and suffering.” Joey suggested. “This owl’s kind of cute looking…”

“Good idea!” I agreed, pulling down a cute, fluffy stuffed porcupine. “I like this one.”

“No….how about this deer. It looks like Bambi, then we could say Henry killed Bambi.”

I didn’t like the deer. It wasn’t very cute. But Joey was so excited about it that I was having a hard time saying no.

“OK…fine…we can get the deer,” I acquiesced, putting the porcupine back on the shelf.

We were nearly back to the grooming salon when Joey brilliantly suggested, “We can name him Beer the Deer! You know, to go along with our naming scheme.” (Names of stuffed animals have to rhyme with what they are. For instance: Habit the Rabbit, Guppy the Puppy, etc.)

“I suppose.” I paused, thinking. “Then we can tell Henry to go get his Beer. Or to bring us a Beer.”

Joey laughed quite loudly. “That’s awesome!” And it was settled.

Come on, what else rhymes with Deer? I ask you.

Henry loved Beer the Deer from the moment he saw it and he instantly forgot about how much he hates getting his toenails clipped. He chewed on it the entire way home and when I found him this morning, he was sleeping with his head on it and one of his paws wrapped around it.

Unfortunately he carried it downstairs this morning when he went outside and I think he went to the bathroom on it. (Marking his territory and whatnot, I suppose.) It looked like more of a mistake on his part than anything else.

Hopefully Beer the Deer has been hidden/destroyed/stolen/otherwise removed from our house by the time Joey is actually a pastor. It would never do to have someone from church over and to have Henry carrying his Beer all over the house.