The dog got groomed and now he’s posh

Thursday, 4 June 2026

Virginia Fallon is a staff writer and columnist based in Wellington and was awarded Best Columnist at the 2026 New Zealand Media Awards.

OPINION: There should be stricter regulations for dog groomers.

I don’t mean actual qualifications or whatever those B Corp things were, but that groomers should be required to warn owners when they’re about to fundamentally alter the appearance of a beloved family member.

When I dropped The Puppy off a week ago, he looked exactly as he always has: a grubby, eye-less gremlin that harbours most of the beach in its coat.

An hour later the groomer emerged carrying a small strange creature I had never seen before. It had enormous round eyes, tiny wee ears, and the sort of chiselled, sculpted face that Clavicular would be proud of.

“He did so well,” said the groomer.

'And how did my dog do?“ I asked.

Not only did this dog in no way resemble my one, but adding insult to injury the poor little bugger was wearing a bow tie. Not even a bandanna, an actual bow tie.

He looked like a tiny maître d’ who was about to ask whether I’d remembered to make a reservation. He looked like a small fussy man who would call his father “Pater”.

He looked like he had a trust fund, some very strong opinions on both table settings and boarding schools, and an unfortunate propensity for sunburn.

“Thank you,” I said to the groomer, “the haircut looks lovely”.

This, funnily enough, is the exact same thing I once said to a human hairdresser who somehow transformed me into Will Ferrell. The sentiment wasn’t true then either.

Puppy-wise though, things were about to get worse. Walking behind him down the driveway I discovered that while I'd been distracted by the eyes, ears, and bow tie, yet another, even more dramatic, transformation had taken place.

The Puppy had acquired an extremely visible bit of bottom.

Look, I know dogs have bits but previously one of his had enjoyed the privacy afforded by several inches of sweet soft fluff. It was there, certainly, but largely hypothetical.

Now however, it appeared to have been fully unveiled, as though the groomer had reached the end of the haircut and thought: “you know what this dog needs? More anatomy.”

So off we went, The Puppy, me, and the Eye of Sauron, all the way home.

For the next few days we didn’t accept visitors, such was our shame. Unfortunately “visitors” is not a category that my few friends, three children, various grandchildren, one mother, or anyone else believes they fall into.

They said things like “oh no”, and “dear god, what have you done to him?”, and “what on earth is that?”.

“It’s weird how he can turn his back and still be staring at me”, said another still, shuddering theatrically.

Truth be told I’d forgotten that grooming was part and parcel of owning a small fluffy dog. My proper dogs of the past 20 years have been big, sensible, and with coats that required little more than the occasional wipe with a wet towel.

But once upon a time I had what I have now, so know it’s just a matter of waiting it out.

A week later his fringe has started growing, his eyes are slightly less prominent and his ears are getting floppier again.

Already he’s rolled in something disgusting, smells faintly rancid, and is currently working on rebuilding his collection of sand.

And any day now the trust fund will disappear, Pater will be forgotten, and The Eye of Sauron will fade into socially appropriate obscurity.

I cannot wait until my grotty little gremlin is back.