It’s done. The Beast is clean. Washing a dog might not sound like a really big chore, until you realize that the dog is a mix of bulldog, Akita, and shepherd. Oh, and weighs about 105 pounds. Yea, that’s a beast of a dog. What made me give her a bath? Well, besides the fact that my mother has been complaining that Kali (aka The Beast) smells like “a dog” (a most offensive term for Kali) and she’s been itching non-stop even after flea treatment, I thought it was time to give her a bath. I really hate to ponder how long she’s gone without a good scrubbing. In a few moments you will understand why.
Washing The Beast goes in several stages, and it’s seriously like wrangling a wild creature in some Grecian Arena. But, let’s look at the magic of washing The Beast, shall we?
The resistance. The resistance starts a little like “no dad, I don’t think I’m feeling like a bath today.” It seems as though the Beast wants in the bathroom at any time OTHER than the time you want to give her a bath. Now, remember, she is 105 pounds, and if she doesn’t want to do something, she’s not freaking doing it! So she slinks off the couch, ears slicked back and plods toward the bathroom at daddies insistence. And then? ZOOM down the hall to grandma’s room to enlist her protection. Thankfully I’d gotten there before The Beast laid down, or I might have had to postpone bath time.
Me: “Alright, come on!”
Beast stares blankly at me with ears slicked back in an attempt to melt my frozen heart. Really, her eyes plead, I’m not that dirty, you don’t want to give me a bath. Yes, I sometimes imagine she’s trying to pull some Jedi shit on me.
Me: “Don’t look at me like that, Grandma says you stink, now come on!” See what I did there? I made it sound like it was all my mother’s fault.
Beast glances back at Grandma while daddy drags her down the hall, arms under her legs, her protesting every inch she’s dragged. Yes, dragged because her toes are splayed open, her legs locked in place, and she’s Just. Not. Helping. This goes on until we get into the bathroom, and then comes:
The pout. The pout lasts for quite a while, and it largely consists of her acting like she’s being punished. Before I wrestle her into the tub she’s standing at the door, looking out the crack like she can disapparate herself to the other side. She can’t. The pout slowly replaces the resistance, and the resistance rears its ugly head one last time as I’m trying to wrangle her into the tub. Now, picture this: she’s 105 pounds and as tall as I am when she’s on her back feet. Do you think she will step into the tub? Not on your freaking life. So, I have to pick her up and place her in. The fun part? We’ve got a claw-foot tub, and she stiffens out to the most easiest position just to help me out. Now she’s in the water, and next comes:
The pleading. The pleading is pretty much like this: she stands in the tub (thankfully not fighting me or trying to jump out) with her ears back, her head down. She randomly switches between the pout and pleading either purposely ignoring me like she’s angry, or staring up at me with her “you’re abusing me, I’m calling the humane society” eyes. Occasionally she will lift her paw up, which is The Beast’s way of saying “PLEASE I’m begging you, for the love of all things puppy, let me go!” (This is also how she asks for food.) When she starts shaking the water off while you’re bathing her, you know you only have a few good douses of water left to her patients. When you’re done, when you finally let her LEAP out of the tub, that’s when her name rears it’s ugly head:
The Beast. This is the moment she’s been waiting for the entire time. The moment when she can shake, when she can quake, when she can convulse in an attempt to get all of the water from her fur, and onto you. The moment you open the bathroom door she bolts. She dives onto the living room floor headfirst, trying to dry herself off. Don’t dare try to get near her with a towel because she’s had enough of your shenanigans, and she’s going to take it out on that towel. We’ve lost many good towels to her post-bath frustrations. She will tear them out of your hands and shake them all about, damn towels. How dare they do that to her? This goes on for several minutes when she’s looking at you like she’s saying “just kidding, I bet you thought you were really abusing me. Joke’s on you, now leave me alone so I can clean myself, because you must have missed a spot.”
I’d love to hear some of your stories about washing your animals! What kinds of pets do we have, and do they act the same as my Beast?