Personally, I have always been able to take dog bathing or leave it alone. My wife accepts it as a challenge, which is a nice attitude to have in the family because it's either wash the dogs now and then or move farther from the kennel.
Now my wife has what I would term a professional-type dog laundry. She has a big backyard sink that stands on legs at a convenient waist height and she has a special dog-washing apron plus all sorts of boxes, bottles, and tubes of things designed to make washed dogs feel frisky and healthy and smell good.
She gets that anticipatory look on her face when dog-washing time arrives. I have seen the same expression on finely trained prize fighters just before entering the ring. She makes dog-washing gestures with both hands and glances at the intended victims from the corners of her eyes. They know.
Tex, the grouchy old prima donna Brittany spaniel, takes on the oppressed look all spaniels specialize in and furtively studies escape routes.
His case is especially interesting because I have never seen a dog who liked water better. He strikes off across any pond he can find and revels in stinking mudholes, even those fringed with ice.
But when bath time comes he runs to his doghouse, somehow going at high speed while humped in a furry ball of anticipatory agony. As Debie drags him out by his collar, he moans piteously and his eyes have a wild look, showing the whites. He faces the sink as if it were filled with boiling oil, then turns his head away in abject terror.
Actually, the scene resembles a gallows to some extent because Debie has rigged a cord so it hangs straight down over the sink and is looped over the victim's neck. At first it appears he would be strangled if he bailed out but note that the noose is very loose and that if anything went really wrong the cord would break before any canine injury could occur. Tex appears to be awaiting a black hood.
As the first lukewarm water is applied, Tex shrinks as if being branded. As the bath proceeds he seems to get smaller and smaller, his will gone, slumped in defeat, and if I pass he eyes me with supplication, even though he treats me with haughty indifference at other times.
It is different with Danny, the white setter. He also dives into the doghouse but once Debie lays a hand on him he becomes a basket case.
"This is it," Danny indicates, "and I had so much of my life ahead of me." His expression is one of resignation and defeat. Debie drags him carefully across the yard on his back, a limp, soiled, white 50 pounds of jelly. I help her hoist him to the gallows, where he suddenly becomes able to stand, like a martyr. Danny too likes to go swimming at every opportunity.
"My, what a pretty dog! Doesn't this nice, warm water feel g-o-o-od? My, what a white dog!"
The event over and each rubbed down with a thick towel, each returns to his former character and feels he has well-earned the huge bone Debie gives him.
They smell better but sometimes I'd like to drown them both.
This story originally appeared in Ridge Runners and Swamp Rats by Charles F. Waterman. Copyright (c) 1983 by Charley Waterman. All rights reserved.