The battleground is usually small, smelling faintly of shampoo and anxiety, and vibrating with the high-pitched whine of professional dryers. To most dogs, a trip to the groomer is a spa day—a luxurious, if slightly confusing, indulgence. To my Belgian Malinois, Sauli, it is an epic confrontation. It is the clash of the titans: a high-drive, suspicious-of-authority canine versus the gentle, patience-of-a-saint professional who just wants to clip some nails.
The pre-game ritual is where the tension begins. Sauli, an expert in reading the room, knows the difference between a “fun car ride” (to the park) and “The Trip” (to the groomer). The moment I reach for her specialized harness—the one that implies we are going somewhere she might be handled by someone else—she vanishes. She becomes a ghost, a tactical retreat expert who can melt into the shadows of the hallway or wedge herself firmly behind the sofa, giving me a look that screams, “I don’t know who you are, but you are not my human today.”
When I finally manage to extract her and buckle her into the car, the silence in the vehicle is heavy. There is no tail wagging. There is no head out the window to catch the breeze. There is only the intense, brooding stare of a dog who is convinced she is being driven to a place where her dignity will be stripped away, one bristle brush stroke at a time.
Arriving at the groomer is the start of the tactical maneuvering. The groomers, bless their hearts, are usually lovely people who coo, “Oh, what a pretty girl!” Sauli, being a Belgian Malinois, does not want to be a pretty girl. She wants to be a working dog. She wants to be in the field. She does not want to be put on a raised metal table that feels suspiciously like an interrogation station.
I watch from the waiting area as the drama unfolds. The first phase is the “Dramatic Sigh.” Sauli will lower her body until her belly touches the table, refusing to move, looking like a discarded fur coat. When the groomer tries to lift her paw to trim a nail, Sauli goes limp. She becomes a liquid dog. She is the master of non-violent resistance. She doesn’t bite, she doesn’t growl—she simply ceases to cooperate with the laws of physics. She becomes dead weight, her entire soul focused on making herself impossible to manipulate.
Then, there is the “Eye Contact.” Sauli has an incredibly intense gaze. It’s the gaze she uses for sheep, for tennis balls, and apparently, for unsuspecting groomers. She will stare at the groomer with a look that says, “I am a descendant of working shepherds. I have seen the harsh plains of Belgium. I have run for miles. And now, you are touching my ears with cotton swabs? Do you have any idea how ridiculous this is?”
I’ve had more than one groomer come back to me after the session with a bead of sweat on their brow. “She’s… very expressive,” one told me, clearly trying to be diplomatic. “She’s very strong-willed,” said another. I know what they mean. They mean she spent the entire hour testing their patience, questioning their methods, and looking at them like they were the most incompetent humans on the planet.
But here is the irony: once the process is over, Sauli trots out to me looking pristine, smelling like lavender and joy. She shakes off the “humiliation,” does a quick zoomie around the parking lot, and suddenly, the ordeal is forgotten. She is back to her cheerful, bouncy self, ready for the next adventure.
The reality, of course, is that Sauli doesn’t actually hate the groomers. She just hates not being the one in control. She is a dog who thrives on partnership, on working together, and on high-stakes tasks. A bath and a trim feel like a passive activity, a loss of agency. She doesn’t want to receive care; she wants to do things.
This ongoing battle—my dog versus the groomer—is really just a reflection of her personality. It’s not about malice; it’s about a dog who has always viewed the world as a place to be conquered or collaborated with, never just a place to sit still and be touched. And while I do apologize profusely every time I hand her off at the counter, there is a small, secret part of me that admires her for it. She is unapologetically herself, even on the grooming table. She demands respect, she challenges the process, and she makes sure that every professional who touches her remembers her name.
So, to every groomer who has successfully managed to bathe, brush, and trim my Belgian Malinois: you have my eternal gratitude. You aren’t just groomers; you are brave, patient, dog-whispering heroes. And as for Sauli? I’ll keep bringing her back—not because she enjoys it, but because as much as she loves to put up a fight, she’s actually quite the drama queen who secretly enjoys the attention. Even if she would never, ever admit it.
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