Doesn’t Banksy looks super fluffy and dandy? Doing her flatness in the mud?

Perhaps it’s all the brushing I do. I do. I brush her. She kind of hates it but deals with it. I give her cookies. She has SO MUCH FUR. I don’t think there could be a fluffier border collie. Her tail weighs as much as Otterpop. And grooming is a just not our thing together. We have a lot of things together that are our things, and grooming is at the very bottom of that list.

Don’t get me started on toenails. Oh, the toenail drama. Really too much drama.

So I had this thought. Her behavior at the vets has improved 100% since I switched her to a new vet. She may not love going to the doctor’s office, but it’s kind of a no big deal, non event now. She’s still scared, but not like a crazed feral creature terrified anymore. She gets shots, she can be poked and prodded and have a thermometer shoved in a spot where the sun never shines and deal with it just fine.

She’s growing up, and also the change of vet and office staff seemed to be the clincher. I LOVE our new vet.

So I had this idea for grooming and mani/pedis. What if the same thing worked? A change of venue? Where I’m not the aesthetician? Maybe somebody new, in a new locale?

Oh yeah. This is our new BFF Kent’s truck. It’s a grooming salon in a RV. And Kent is the Banksy whisperer. Toenails? Really? He can’t believe she’s ever been bad about them. Not for Kent. Banksy LOVES Kent. Clip the black ones? No big deal. Dremel all around. Trim the foot hair? You mean she doesn’t stand quietly for me for all the scissor snipping? Brush the fluffiness out of sensitive areas? Clean the ears?

Apparently Kent is the Banksy whisperer. And he’s super nice and kind, he’s not that kind of dog whisperer. He puts cookies on the window sill for her to look at. I swear to god, that’s what he said. She stands on his little table in his little motorhome and lets him do whatever he wants to her. And she comes out smelling like dog shampoo and perfect nails and perfect everything. One of his little dogs snoozes on the front seat while he works his Kent magic on her inside the truck.

I had no idea there were Kents out there. We’ve never been to a professional groomer. I’ve always used the hose in the driveway and brushed dogs out on the deck and everyone sits in my lap and gets nails done, but not Banksy. Apparently Banksy is fancy and needed to experience the finer things in life like her own grooming truck showing up for spa day.

Now I know why Kents exist. I surrender. Banksy now has her very own Kent. She apparently just didn’t want Mommy Dearest working on her at home. I will be stuffing dollars in a Kent jar to be able to afford her new beloved. Just for you, Banksy. It takes a village or at least an entourage, and Kent is now an essential member of ours.