Knee-jerk Lebowski quotes aside, had a stint years ago now as a mobile dog washing van person. Amongst the staple clientele of guard dog GSDs, pet Malamutes, Newfies, and such, basically “too big, ornery, and hairy to bath ourselves” one client was an ancient Pomeranian with heart issues. Belonged to an old lady in a big house; the dog got a wash and blow dry once a week. The lady would carry the dog out, so tenderly, and hand him over with great trust. When wet the dog was the size of a rat (they are 90% fluff), and would cringe in the corner of the bath unit that could comfortably hold a St Bernard, trembling all over, eyes bugging, claws scrabbling for a hold on the plastic. The blow dry wasn’t as bad, as it was super fast. More than any of the jobs, which didn’t bother me beyond a bit of caution at times, that one stressed me out. Was worried sick the dog would die from the ordeal, every single time. Glad the owner never watched. Not once. Never said it bugged me, much less asked if the dog was a fucking show dog with fucking papers. That’s what fear does to a person, my friends, that’s what it does.