Today, Wednesday, March 28th, I mercilessly tortured my dog. I was heartless and unrelenting. I used the most diabolical of all weapons: soap and warm water.
That's how he'd tell it anyway. From my perspective, I was just giving him a bath. It's a beautiful day for it. The weather is sunny and warm. And he's starting to blow out his winter coat, as testified to by the blanket of dog fur that rings my room and most other places in the house.
He hates water. I removed his collar and picked him up, and it wasn't until I deposited him in the shower stall and climbed in with him that he knew something was really Really REALLY wrong. Throughout, he makes these whiny little whimpers that I refer to as his "little mouse noises." I'd say I turned a deaf ear to his pleading, but that wouldn't quite be accurate. I find it almost unbearably cute.
After I soaked, soaped, and rinsed him, I did the same for me. "See! Dad likes getting all clean! It's not so bad!"
Faithful Companion was not reassured by this.
Once the door of the shower stall slid open in it's tracks, he was out of there like a shot.
But then came the part he really likes: the toweling off! (Dogs love getting toweled off! At least my dog does.
Now, his noises are vastly different, all playful growls and yelps of joy.
I put some clothes on and we headed out onto the porch for some brushing and combing. The real brushing and combing will come later. When his wooly undercoat, loosened by the bath, will turn my little brown-eyed boy into a cottonball factory with four legs and a tail.
Maybe tomorrow or the next day, I'll take him over to the dog park in Montgomeryville and show him off.