She’s still the same, nonetheless

My+shaved%2C+but+still+perfect%2C+dog.+

My shaved, but still perfect, dog.

The other day, I came home from school to what once was my furry friend.

My beloved dog, Luna, had been shaved at the groomers. Although this tragedy occurs probably twice a year, nonetheless, it is a jump scare every time. My sweet Bernedoodle—whose breed is known for having curly, fluffy fur—was stripped of her natural beauty. 

It’s always a hard picture to grasp, seeing more skin than fur on my poor puppy. And even though my family and I are at fault for not brushing her every day, Luna’s hair growth journey is strenuous. 

She is a dog who loves running around in circles in the front yard until her legs don’t let her anymore. She loves digging never-ending holes; she loves running through the bushes to unintentionally fill her fur with burrs.

Those are also valid reasons as to why she has no choice but to get shaved.  

And she still showers me with kisses when she senses I’m feeling sad; she still jumps onto my bed and sits right on top of my homework when she’s craving attention.”

But even after she’s lost all her hair from a razor, her personality doesn’t alter in the slightest. Her personality is still the same crazy dog I’ve known since the day we took her home and called her ours.

She still gets overly excited when she hears the garage open, and she still gets somber when she hears my car pull out of the driveway. She still gets put into a trance when she spots a squirrel or deer in the backyard and she still darts out just as soon as the door is cracked, allowing her to play tag—a game in which she never wins. 

And she still showers me with kisses when she senses I’m feeling sad; she still jumps onto my bed and sits right on top of my homework when she’s craving attention.

Dogs don’t care about their appearance, point-blank. 

They care about the love their home gives them and the unwavering relationships amongst those walls. So, essentially, I’m trying to be like Luna; I’m trying to leave my concerns on appearances and replace it with absorbing the tenderness around me.

And even though that may sound like an extremely difficult process, it’s still a goal.

And even though my brother now calls her “Rat Dog,” which is as blatant as calling her “Miss Ugly,” she’s still my Luna to me.

Because I still love her the same. Even without her fluffy face, even with her body not functioning as a pillow anymore, even with some of her cuteness stripped, she’s still the same dog as before she went to the groomers. 

And because hair grows back. 

It’s just a matter of time before I can bury my face into the depths of her brown, white, and black fur. It’s just a matter of time before she’s the same, old Luna with the floppy ears and huge, furry paws that nag at you when for a split-second, you give your attention elsewhere.

But for now, she has taught me that even if her looks change, her intentions and persona remain. 

And that’s what makes dogs so, so special.