Doggone it

If there’s one smell I cannot stand it is damp dog.

No, there’s no metaphor at play here. I simply do not like the scent of a canine coat once it is wet. It is an affront to my olfactory system.

After the terrible loss of our chocolate Labrador to a tick last year, we now have this funny little creature that was rescued by the RSPCA, by the name of Chester. He’s an 18 month old Shih Tzu, we think. He has strawberry blonde fur. But also has a rather nasty habit of chewing it off. This leaves him looking like a cross between a hairless cat and a floor mop.

Since it’s winter and he complains about the cold (but doesn’t stop chewing his hair off, mind you) I bought him a couple of doggy sweaters. But instead of ‘out of mind out of sight’, it only seems to highlight the male-pattern-baldness the dog is displaying. He’s quite a sight, and definitely not one seen on the dog show circuit.

Anyhow, after a few too many days of rain turned our backyard into a bog the little critter being close to the ground, has kinda dip-dyed himself and has a dark brown to blonde thing going on (Sorta like Madonna in the ‘let your roots show’ phase, only in the opposite order).

With great reluctance I realised it was up to me to do something about it.

As soon as Chester heard me turn on the tap in the laundry tub he bolted.

After chasing him around the backyard for a few minutes, I resorted to bribing him with food to get him close enough to grab him (I actually caught him by the jumper which handily half came off in the process). Then after a few futile moments foraging in his fur I was able to find and remove his collars in preparation for the big event.

There is now the saddest pair of big brown eyes peering up at me from top of the washing machine, and he suddenly discovers some Chihuahua in his parentage as he starts shaking in anticipation (or maybe it’s trepidation).

After trying to coax the dog into the tub of his own accord, I attempt to lift the little fella up. I swear his toenails grew two inches as he tries to hang on for dear life- unsuccessfully I might add- as it’s a little tricky getting a grip on whitegoods.

At last he’s in the water. So far so good. But now the little devil won’t sit down. “Sit!” I say, using the accompanying hand signal (and not the one usually reserved for those who are peeving one off), and start pushing down on his rear end. (Goodness me when did he get so strong- he’s barely a foot long for crying out loud!) I finally get his butt down and reach for the doggy shampoo, only to find him standing up again. This scenario is played out for a couple of minutes until both the dog and I are decidedly drenched.

I would like to say that things get easier once I have shampoo in hand. But you would not be reading this blog right now if that were the case.

Oh no, Chester’s fondness for the smell of shampoo is obviously equal to my liking for wet dog, as he tries to bolt again, but I manage to catch him just as he escapes over the side, by wedging his little body against the tub with my tummy.

At this point my Beloved sticks his head in the doorway with an “Everything ok?” I find myself addressing his rapidly retreating back as he realises that it is not. This little dog is well and truly giving me the Shih Tzus.

Vowing not to let a little blonde bundle of fur defeat me, I soldier on with the shampooing, and eventually get enough suds from top to tail. Then, after despairing that there are more knots here that the Sydney to Hobart yacht race, I resort to doing some wizardry with the scissors.

How hard is it to hold a dog with one hand while trying to trim with the other and not cut anything that the mutt might need?

Here’s usually when my children come to see what I’m up to and offer their assistance. Chester takes this as an opportunity to break free from my grip and takes a flying leap off the washing machine and frantically tries to get his footing on the tiles. Not fast enough. Against all common sense, I launch myself at the little wet woofer before he streaks off up the hall. And then find myself becoming a human windshield while two kids take cover behind me as Chester starts shaking off the water.

I manage to wrestle him back on top of the washer, and give him a good towel-dry before I put him down and stand back for the post-wash performance (Chester running crazily around the house, rolling on the floor, rubbing his head up and down the hall, all interspersed with more distribution of water droplets).

At this point I am wishing we had funds to enlist the professional services of a mobile dogwasher, and am well and truly lamenting the fact that we are all but banned from the local pet stop after I accidentally sprayed the assistant with flea rinse (well, she would come asking questions whilst I had hose in hand). Plus Chester choosing to act all top dog like and mark his territory on the counter didn’t help the situation any (they said it happens all the time, so perhaps he could be forgiven).

But for now at least the dog is lovely and clean again. While sadly, I smell like…wet dog.

Jx
©2009