The quiet hour is finally here. 9:30 at night. The children are off to bed. You, my dear dog, have been let out for the last time of the evening and welcomed back in with the rest of the herd.
You leap. You snuggle. You lick.
Oh sweet baby Moses in the bull rushes do you ever smell. Before I can even adjust to the olfactory assault, I am hit with a second wave of disgusting realization. You also ooze. And you are sharing the malodorous goo with my shirt. Aack!Aack!Aack! I somehow avoid vomiting or letting out a string of expletives and throw you into the tub.
It is at this point that the husband, genteel and cultured, clad in clothes that do not ooze, comes home from an evening of orchestra practice. This is the difference in our worlds in a nutshell at the moment. And he asks a fateful question.
“Why are you giving the dog a bath at 9:30 at night?”
The expletive dam breaks.
“BECAUSE HE ROLLED IN SHIT OF COURSE! SERIOUSLY. WHY THE HELL ELSE WOULD I BE DOING THIS?!?!?!”
He laughs nervously and beats a quick retreat. He does not stay for the haz-mat decontamination. This is between you and me. Our poopy prom, our dance of de-defecation.
A dog owner should not have favorites, but alas, you are mine. You speak my language, and understand the phrase “do you want to take a nap?” like other dogs salivate over a proposed walk.
If not for your propensity for poop-rolling, and occasional decision to PEE IN YOUR OWN FOOD BOWL so the other dogs won’t come near it, you would be a perfect canine companion.
Alas, you are flawed, and that is probably why I like you best.
I relate to your propensity for getting into unsavory situations despite the best of intentions. My human nature and your canine impulses are not so different.
So I extend grace and dog shampoo to you, and as I scrub, thank God for offering me His mercies new every morning.
I change my shirt, I bleach the tub. We start again tomorrow.