Every once in a while my owner goes a bit nuts. Life will be going along just fine and suddenly for no reason….I’m in trouble and punished. Not “go to your dog bed trouble” but punished just the same.
The first thing that happens is I’m sent to a special room and my collar is removed. Now my collar might as well be part of my body. It even has my name and phone number on it so I won’t get lost. If my collar is lying on the floor then my owner is up to no good. It is the only valuable piece of jewelry I own. My bell gets attached to it when I’m going out on a hike, my leash is attached to it for neighbourhood walks, so when it comes off I’m frightened.
The next thing that happens is I get locked in a glass box. It would not surprise me to learn that this room has played a historical role in torture. I’ll ask Jon, our medieval specialist, next time he comes to town. Then my owner climbs in the box with me. This is a sure sign we are not just taking pictures of the little glassed in room to share with friends. Serious business is underway.
Warm water is sprayed all over me, suds are rubbed into my fur, and I start to look like an overgrown rat. Surely you sense my humilation as I turn my face to the wall. A photo of my degradation was recently leaked to Facebook, paparazzi I’m sure. My friend Shiprock dropped me a note to let me know he was mortified for me.
Does this mean my dog pals don’t get baths? How does that work? I overheard Anya and Scott say that Robbie gets infrequent rinses under the hose…OK….that does sound like torture, at least I get warm water. I will say that Robbie looks like a much tougher dog than yours truly, however. Tough cookie is my outer persona and delicate flower is my inner nature.
A good drying with a towel comes courtesy of the torture time in the shower. Now this I like. Towels are fun because you can play hide and go seek with yourself and the dog versus man wrestling games are fun too. Don’t rip the towel…this can end up with you going to your mat!
We just got a giant drowning pool put in our downstairs bathroom. She took me down to size me up against it. When she tried to lift me in I turned myself into a dead weight. I’m not stupid. Trust me – she puts me in that thing and I bite!
Only as I write this does it occur to me that it is always the owner that puts me in the glass box for a scrub. In all my nine years the curly-headed Alpha has never even shown me what the glass box room even looks like.
It took me a while to figure out why but it is because he doesn’t worry about what he looks like. He barely has more accoutrements (Benj’s favourite word that he taught me a year ago) for dolling himself up than I do.
She, on the other hand, is loaded for bear as they say. Her products line the shelves of the glass box room, fill a cabinet, and she even has special mirrors with which to examine her face. I’ve tried to tell her, “you’re old, let it go.” No way in hell was her response. “Let the hair go grey”….caused her to start mumbling under her breath about over dead bodies. Does that mean MY dead body or hers? For what it’s worth I dropped the subject.
The last laugh is really mine though, isn’t it. She can take me in that glass room and cover me with shampoo. She can brush me until I shine. But as soon as I get outside my nose can smell every disgusting thing known to man and before she can say Jack Robinson I can stop, drop and roll all over it and make myself smell just the way I want to. See ya later.