Roadtoad
Bufo Caminus Inedibilis
Split this one off from How do Pagans Celebrate Christmas, simply because I thought a little truth and levity were required.
As it happens, my in-laws are all coming for Christmas breakfast at our place tomorrow. I ordinarily wouldn't mind, except that part of what had to happen to make this work was that someone had to bathe our mutt puppy, Rosie.
Now, this is not as simple as it sounds. First, the only real experience I have in bathing dogs is that while I was growing up, once every three months or so, I'd bathe our dachshund, Schnitzel. Schnitzel, as you might expect, was much smaller than Rosie, as he weighed in at 15 pounds. Rosie, on the other hand, is a Rott/Shepherd mix, and comes in at around 109 pounds. (She's been on a diet, so she's lost some weight. Relax, Rolfe.)
Usually, it's my wife and kids who bathe Rose. Not this time. After going outside this morning for her usual visit to the bushes, she decided it was time to take a roll in her favorite corner of the yard, which is normally dry and dusty. Today, after several days of rain, it was muddy. Add to this that Rosie figured this out fairly quick, she decided to roll somewhere else where she'd left a few "dog bombs" in the yard.
Since the boss hadn't seen fit to put me out on the road today, guess who got elected to wash the dirty dog?
I tried to prepare for the ordeal early on. I got out the dog shampoo, a couple of towels, (Peggy laughed at me, saying that I'd need a LOT more for Rose than two), and eventually, a pitcher to dump the warm water all over our smelly girl.
Then I had to go find her.
She wasn't outside, nor was she in the living room, or in the office. I finally found her on the bed, next to my wife, who was sitting there reading. I walked in, grabbed two legs, and tried to pull her off the bed. Nothing doing. She crawled on her belly right up tight next to Peggy, then looked back at me and growled.
"Come on, Rose. It's time for a bath..."
"Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr..."
Peggy shook her head and jumped off the bed. "Come on, Rose. Let's go." She quickly led Rosie to the bathroom, where I tried to get her into the tub. I lifted both front paws, pushed from the back, then hoisted up her hind end and plopped her into the tub, where she proceeded to tuck her tail between her legs and whimper.
Peggy closed the bathroom door, and that left me with the dog.
I'll spare you the more mundane details. Most of what happened can be summed up from a few select quotes from myself:
"Dammit, Rose, STAY IN THE TUB!"
"No, don't shake. DON'T SHAKE!"
"Stand up. No, not there, HERE!"
"*%&#@&%^$!!!"
To say it was a pain in the @$$ is an understatement. But, after a half our of soggy hell, I finally got Rose cleaned up. Peggy came in after I got her out, and we dried her off. Once more, she smelled sweet, even if she did have a sad eyed look to her. Once she was dried, she trotted along behind Peggy, and settled herself on the remade bed, snuggled up to my wife's back.
I walked in and leaned over towards Rose. "Feel better, Girl?"
"Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr..."
"Treat?"
"Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr..."
"You aren't still mad, are you?"
"Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr..."
No, no great lessons in all of this. Just a reminder that in too many ways, Christmas Eve is just another day. But, at least Rosie will look nice for Christmas Day.
As it happens, my in-laws are all coming for Christmas breakfast at our place tomorrow. I ordinarily wouldn't mind, except that part of what had to happen to make this work was that someone had to bathe our mutt puppy, Rosie.
Now, this is not as simple as it sounds. First, the only real experience I have in bathing dogs is that while I was growing up, once every three months or so, I'd bathe our dachshund, Schnitzel. Schnitzel, as you might expect, was much smaller than Rosie, as he weighed in at 15 pounds. Rosie, on the other hand, is a Rott/Shepherd mix, and comes in at around 109 pounds. (She's been on a diet, so she's lost some weight. Relax, Rolfe.)
Usually, it's my wife and kids who bathe Rose. Not this time. After going outside this morning for her usual visit to the bushes, she decided it was time to take a roll in her favorite corner of the yard, which is normally dry and dusty. Today, after several days of rain, it was muddy. Add to this that Rosie figured this out fairly quick, she decided to roll somewhere else where she'd left a few "dog bombs" in the yard.
Since the boss hadn't seen fit to put me out on the road today, guess who got elected to wash the dirty dog?
I tried to prepare for the ordeal early on. I got out the dog shampoo, a couple of towels, (Peggy laughed at me, saying that I'd need a LOT more for Rose than two), and eventually, a pitcher to dump the warm water all over our smelly girl.
Then I had to go find her.
She wasn't outside, nor was she in the living room, or in the office. I finally found her on the bed, next to my wife, who was sitting there reading. I walked in, grabbed two legs, and tried to pull her off the bed. Nothing doing. She crawled on her belly right up tight next to Peggy, then looked back at me and growled.
"Come on, Rose. It's time for a bath..."
"Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr..."
Peggy shook her head and jumped off the bed. "Come on, Rose. Let's go." She quickly led Rosie to the bathroom, where I tried to get her into the tub. I lifted both front paws, pushed from the back, then hoisted up her hind end and plopped her into the tub, where she proceeded to tuck her tail between her legs and whimper.
Peggy closed the bathroom door, and that left me with the dog.
I'll spare you the more mundane details. Most of what happened can be summed up from a few select quotes from myself:
"Dammit, Rose, STAY IN THE TUB!"
"No, don't shake. DON'T SHAKE!"
"Stand up. No, not there, HERE!"
"*%&#@&%^$!!!"
To say it was a pain in the @$$ is an understatement. But, after a half our of soggy hell, I finally got Rose cleaned up. Peggy came in after I got her out, and we dried her off. Once more, she smelled sweet, even if she did have a sad eyed look to her. Once she was dried, she trotted along behind Peggy, and settled herself on the remade bed, snuggled up to my wife's back.
I walked in and leaned over towards Rose. "Feel better, Girl?"
"Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr..."
"Treat?"
"Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr..."
"You aren't still mad, are you?"
"Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr..."
No, no great lessons in all of this. Just a reminder that in too many ways, Christmas Eve is just another day. But, at least Rosie will look nice for Christmas Day.
