I used to know a man who was a classic male chauvinist. His macho ego pervaded everything he did, from butt-pinching to verbal bigotry. I agreed to bathe and clip his hunting dog and I was not surprised to note with what viciousness the dog protected his area of manhood. I could imagine his master growl with similar aggression if a pair of scissors came that close to him! Yes, the dog and master had such interchangeable personalities, I could imagine them both sitting on a couch chugging beer and swapping sex-jokes.

Then there was the hairdresser who couldn’t keep his shears away from his poodle. As a dog groomer, I certainly wouldn’t attempt to give my husband a continental clip, so I don’t understand why hair stylists think they can transfer their talents to their animal companions. But I didn’t have the heart to tell the hairdresser to save his coiffures for his human patrons. If he liked his dog with a shaved forehead, that was his business. Besides, the dog didn’t seem to mind, and I rather liked the smell of mousse.

The hairdresser’s work was only a small test of my skill in patching up the work of the inexperienced. Junior may have decided Rover should go punk, or that Fido needs whiskers only on one side of his nose. Granny may have attempted to do the clipping herself to save some money. In any case, the dog didn’t turn out to be a proper representation of its owner.

“Can you fix it?”

I would look at the dog, tufts of hair forming a rugged terrain of peaks and valleys across its body, and patches here and there shaved to the skin, making the animal appear more unkempt than a Yak with a skin condition.

“Only God can perform miracles,” I’d tell them, ”but I’ll do my best.”

Some dogs just don’t grow up to be the kind of self-expression we had hoped for, and there is only so much influence one can inflict upon nature. Regardless, someone would inevitably ask me to “leave some hair on Brandy’s legs... otherwise she’ll look like a watermelon on toothpicks.” Later, the owner could pick up the dog, which then looked like a watermelon on dowels.

Some people would expect miracles nonetheless, like the finicky woman who wanted her purebred groomed with the same meticulous perfection she required of her beauty salon. She brought magazine photos to show how her dog’s hair should be done, and insisted the dog’s nails be painted with Passion Pink because Crimson did not offer enough contrast.

Or the style-conscious gentleman who insisted his poodles be groomed to have extremely exaggerated top knots, that is, large, round puffs off hair on top of their heads. If I did the job right, they looked like two-headed dogs by the time I was done, but this man thought he was making the hottest fashion statement since miniskirts. I could have used some of the hairdresser’s mousse for that job.

Now, I have two dogs of my own, and I wonder which one is a more accurate extension of me. The old dog is so placid, she loves nothing more than lying around, snuffling up the popcorn dribbles when I watch TV. The other dog is a whirlwind of activity, a humorous rendition of a canine with wiry hair and black spots from ears to tail. I call her the North American Wild Dog.

Besides being of mixed descent, we have a lot more in common than you might think. For instance, none of us has a top knot, we all like popcorn, and we leave our hair long...