The Awful Toilette

One by one they are called.
Set before me the instruments
of my intention. They are very well
aware of the process. They come,
obedient to my behest, but they
silently protest their dismay in the
procedure to be embarked upon,
poor, dear put-upon creatures.

They are dishevelled and
ill-groomed, their coats grown
shaggy, disreputable as unkempt
strays. This periodic required
grooming of their runaway
pelts presents me with no great
pleasure, yet must be done.

They quiver, quail and wail. One
might imagine that I recklessly
wield a surgical scalpel on the verge
of invasive surgery. Patiently, I snip,
murmuring encouragement to my
hairy scamps. Released from their
enforced purgatory they appear as
refined, elegant, presentable dawgs.