The sad tail of Fluffy the Poodle

Fluffy, hot under the collar














A new years tail, the grisly end of Fluffy the poodle.

News from home that Dad has been unwell and unable to come out to join us has been a great blow to the children who were all really looking forward to it. I know Mum would have had a good laugh over this story, so, this is for you, Dad. Get well soon!

We have been staying in a variety of Campsites since arriving in mainland Mexico. There are many that cater to the “snowbirds”, usually Canadian, but many norteamericanos, retired couples who escape the harsh winters of their homelands for the sunshine of these balmy latitudes.

Sadly these tend to be “gated communities” of expensive motor homes, about as far removed from the Mexico around them as it is possible to be, with neat concrete pads, potted plants, proper sewers and electrical hookups, providing space for these winter migrants to set up comfortable lives, living like kings and queens in their palaces, with buying power beyond the reach of those outside the gates.

We have generally shunned these sites as a matter of principle, opting for the beaches and sites catering to travelers or Mexican families, or when we find ourselves approaching dusk with no-where to stay, simply knocking on a door in a quiet neighborhood and asking if it's OK to park outside for the night.

Occasionally however we make a pit stop to charge the batteries, use the washing machines & showers at one of these smarter “RV parks”. Here we meet some of the “snowbirds” and hear their stories.

Suzanne bumped into Reg, a silver haired chap from Northern California, walking his neat little poodle, one sunny morning in December. For want of a better subject, and to avoid drawing attention to the revolting plastic bag Reg was sheepishly trying to conceal behind his back, she cooed some niceties about Georgie's fluffy coat.

Reg explained that Georgie had recently been taken to the dog grooming parlour, a practice now common in California, indeed we had seen quite a few of these places in the high streets and malls when we were there. Turns out Georgie was actually a replacement for Fluffy, a much loved, aged forebear. And so begins the sorry tale of Fluffy's demise.

Reg had taken Fluffy to the dog groomer back home in California, dropped her off at the appointed hour and gone off to do some errands. The three hour session was due to end at one, so Reg pulled up outside the Parlor at five-to, and was getting out of the car when the groomstress appeared at the parlour door, Red-eyed and distraught.

“Fluffy, Fluffy's dead” she blurted out, barely able to speak with the distress evident in her voice.

Reg was stunned: Fluffy, dead! How? He had only dropped her off a couple of hours ago to have her coat trimmed and her claws polished, what on earth could have happened? A heart attack?

“What do you mean Fluffy's dead, what on earth happened?”

“He's dead” wailed the groomstress. “I put her in the dryer and forgot her and now she's dead”.

“Left her in the dryer! You cooked my dog! Where is she? Where's her body?”

“I haven't got her body”

“What do you mean you haven't got her body? Wheres my dog? I want her body now!”

“ I can't give you her body because I took her to the vet and had her cremated. Here, this is her ashes in this pot!” She held out the small box.

Reg boiled over: “This is outrageous! Call yourself a dog groomer! Your'e not fit to look after animals! You cooked my dog and then you had her cremated without my permission and now I can't even say goodbye to her!”

“Go ahead sue me.” Cried the hapless woman. “I'm finished anyway, I've done with this job and I'm off, you sue me if you want, there's no money.”

With that she turned and ran back into the Parlour, slamming the door and leaving Reg, speechless in the road. Bewildered, he got back into the car and drove home. All night he sat at the kitchen table with his wife, Deidre, coming to terms with their loss and trying to decide how to respond to this dreadful catastrophe. The mixed feelings of sorrow and outrage made it hard to decide how to act.

The following day dawned bright and sunny and Reg had to go to the shops to buy some milk. Still dazed from the shock of the previous day he pulled into the petrol station to fill up with gas.

At the pump he saw Lydia from down the road. As soon as she saw him she started purposefully towards him, brimming with gossip. Reg was hardly in the mood for pleasantries, but his defences were low and he was unable to muster any excuses.

“Oh Reg! I've just heard the most awful story, you're not going to believe what's happened at the dog Groomers!”

Reg, as if in a dream, slowly became aware that the story now being recounted, far from being one of Lydia's usual banal pieces of tittle tattle, in fact concerned him.

“..and so there she was grooming this dog, she'd just put the little thing in the dryer when she heard a scream from her litle girl. She's only six you know. Well, anyway, she ran outside to see what was going on and her dear little Scottie, you know the little black one, well it had run out into the road and been run over right in front of the little girl's eyes, poor little dear. “

Reg was only very slowly assimilating the information that was coming to him, he couldn't speak.


“So there she was comforting her little girl, and scraping poor Angus off the road, and all the time trying to be brave, because she loved that little dog; and there was the driver to look after of course... well, it all took a while, and all this time the dryer was going inside and she'd completely forgotten about it!...”

The horrific story needed no further elaboration for Reg- he already knew the rest- but Lydia was in full flow.

“Well, you can imagine! When the mess was cleared up outside she came back in and it was only then that she saw the dryer was still running and the poor little dog inside was cooked to a cinder! She rushed it to the vet apparently but he couldn't save the little dog.”

Reg could bear it no longer, he was sudenly roused out of his dreamlike state.

“Lydia, it was me, I mean it was Fluffy! It was Fluffy in the dryer!”

For a moment Lydia looked at Reg as if he had hit her- and then she recovered her senses and, overwhelmed with the enormity of what Reg had revealed to her, she subsided into panic stricken condolences.

“Oh Reg! I'm so sorry, I can't believe it, you must be so upset! And poor little Fluffy! Oh and what a terrible thing.”

“I know” said Reg, “and I can't think what to do- all last night I was thinking I would report this woman to the animal health inspectors, and I gave her a pretty hard time really- she must be devestated. She didn't even mention the accident! I must go immediately and tell her I know everything. That I understand how it all happened.”

Reg ran to his car, forgetting to fill up his petrol tank, sped to the Dog Groomers. He parked outside and walked briskly to the door- but it was locked. He peered through the glass front of the shop and was shocked to see that the entire place had been gutted. No stands, pictures of show winning dogs, racks of combs and scissors, shampoos and conditioners. Only one piece of equipment remained to indicate what the shop might once have been used for. The shiny metal dog dryer was standing, where it had always stood, against the far wall of the shop.