Thursday, August 29, 2013

I stink

You can't smell it, but think dirty odors.

That’s what mom told me very bluntly last Saturday. She sniffed my neck – right where I had rub that awesome dead worm, that I found in the driveway, into my fur a few days ago– and her nose turned all wrinkled. Then she found some raccoon poop behind my ear and almost lost her mind from the smell of it. What is wrong with her? Does she not like my outdoorsy appeal? I like when I smell like adventure and camping trip and wild hunting dog. But there was no discussing it. Before I knew it, she had made me naked (took the collar off), dragged me into the bathroom, locked the door, put me in the shower and turned the hose on. I mean, we are talking about a scrub and wash, not a romantic foamy sponge bath with a squeaky rubber ducky. She scrubbed and washed and there was a grey-brown broth coming off my fur – I was afraid that she was washing all the color off of me and I would look like an albino beagle. When she finally thought that there was no more stink on me, she started to chase me with a towel. 

Shiny, none stinky, got away from the bathroom.
Too bad for her: All wet, I jumped out of the shower and showed her how much disrespect I had for her behavior by shaking all over the bathroom. Ha! There was still dirt coming off and it left a nice splashy pattern on the tiles! I must have made enough of a mess, because all at once, she started yelling something like “get out of her” and I managed to escape from being water tortured and was finally free to rub myself all over the carpet – I might have picked up some ant or fly poop. You never know until it stinks.

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