Give me the great dane any day. I watch with dread as our tiny dogs' claws grow longer and longer and trimming day approaches.
I take them for walks down the tarseal road and on the river gravel. I encourage them to dig holes in the garden, but relentlessly the toenails grow longer. I start dropping hints to family that, really, we should take turns trimming chihuahua claws. They cruelly remind me that the dogs are mine, not theirs.
When it really can't be avoided any longer, I ready my equipment: nailclippers, a towel, a blanket and anyone who can be co-opted to help.
Now, I swear that trimming a dog's toenails does not hurt, unless you cut them too short.
Milo, our miniature pinscher, swears it does hurt, it hurts right from the time I pick him up and wrap him in the towel to the time I release him afterwards, and he swears about it the whole time at the top of his very high-pitched voice.
Bunnie, the biggest of the chihuahuas, doesn't say much about the procedure. She keeps all her energy for snatching her feet away just as I'm about to clip each claw. It takes at least three snatches and re-grasps to do each claw, four claws per foot. It's like upside-down Riverdance. With fur.
Hugo, the smallest chihuahua, is a slippery customer. He's small and he's shiny, and he has no corners. There's just nothing of him to get a grip on. Just when I think I have him wrapped in the towel he slips out the bottom and does a runner.
He's quick, Hugo, but as long as the cat door is closed there's no escape. Eventually he'll end up in a remote corner under the bed and I drag him out, blow the dust and cobwebs off him and start again. It takes a few goes, but at least it gets the corners under the bed dusted.
Mungo is always left until last. Wiry and determined, he's an old hand at evading claw clipping, baths and any other healthcare initiative. He does the snatch, the high-pitched screech and the wriggle and run, but you have to get a hold of him first.
When he sees the clippers come out, Mungo becomes invisible. He'll generally be under the couch cushions, beneath a duvet on one of the beds or scrunched into a corner.
Cornered and caught, he has to be wrapped in the towel like a canine burrito, then bundled into the blanket and stuffed under one arm. Then I sit in an armchair and squash the entire package into submission before fossicking in the folds for one small foot. Any foot will do, but despite - in theory - there being four available, there won't be a foot to be found.
I swear Mungo retracts his limbs like a turtle.
I get a tail, teeth, several ears and eventually a foot. Then I do it all again and inevitably get the same foot. It takes ages, and explaining to him that this could be a lot easier if he stayed still hasn't worked yet. But it's only been 11 years now so there's still hope.
It's not toenail-clipping time for a couple of weeks yet, but this week when the dogs were in the car there was a hue and cry and all the car windows were rolled down ... "Mungo's breath is horrible!"
Oh no - it's worse than toenail-clipping time, it's teeth-cleaning time. I looked at Mungo and he narrowed his eyes and looked shifty. So I picked up my phone and called in reinforcements.
I've booked him in with the vet. Don't tell him.
