"Who wants to give me a sponge bath? I'm filthy."
I gave her a bath yesterday. I had to, I honestly can’t remember the last time she had a bath. It was probably sometime in the spring. It certainly wasn’t any time this past summer. Her hair was a matted mess, she was dirtier than a Vikings’ pleasure cruise, and she stunk worse than the Astros’ relief pitching. She didn’t like it, but she accepted her bath without crying. That night I gave Abbie a bath too, but that bath did involve a lot of crying. Of course I had to be sure to clean all the dog fur out of the bathtub first.
Ellie started warning me that the dog needs a bath weeks ago. I had no counterargument to “she stinks” because it was true. I just didn’t want to spend the time and money to have her professionally groomed like we did at least four times a year back when we had disposable income. For what I’d spend having her professionally groomed, I could buy one of those comically large boxes of diapers found in the warehouse club stores, the kind that hold enough diapers to keep the twins wrapped in relatively dry plastic for more than an entire week. Recently Ellie’s warnings grew more urgent with an underlying threat that she was going to take matters into her own hands and, cost be damned, she was going to schedule the grooming visit herself. And if she scheduled the grooming, I would likely have to take the dog to the groomers at an inopportune time, like during Abbie’s naptime, or worse, during my naptime.
I took preemptive action to save my nap and gave the dog a bath myself. We already had a nearly full bottle of dog shampoo in the cupboard, so all I had to do was fill the tub with water and throw the dog in. Literally, I had to throw the dog in the bathtub; she hates baths. She has willingly jumped in a lake or other swimming area on occasion for a couple minutes of dog paddling, so I know she doesn’t hate or fear water. If there’s a possibility that soap could be involved though, she avoids water like the Astros manager avoids taking responsibility. No doubt the dog’s love of swimming but hatred of bathing will prepare me for the day when Abbie discovers she can fight back when I lather her up.
Once I locked the dog in the bathroom, things progressed fairly smoothly. She didn’t struggle much to escape the bathtub, though she did insist on resting her front paws on the tub so as to minimize contact with the water, and to shorten the escape route should I turn my back for any foolish reason like preventing Abbie from climbing in the tub. By the way, how did I juggle a soapy dog that wants nothing more than to escape the tub, and a wriggly toddler who wants nothing more than to climb in the tub, or possibly just poke said soapy dog? Very carefully.
After rinsing, I toweled her off, gave her a blow dry, brushed the loose fur off her, brushed the loose fur off her, brushed the loose fur off her, brushed … let’s just say I’m still picking loose fur off her. And the carpet. And the sofas. And the bed.
I gave the bathtub a thorough wiping to clean the loose fur out of it before Abbie’s regular bath that night. Usually Abbie loves her bath, but she put up a struggle last night. About the time I finished soaping her up, she started screaming and actively trying to climb out of the tub, two maneuvers that the dog wishes she had thought of. I couldn’t figure out why Abbie suddenly wanted out of the tub so badly. Tired, cranky, and ready for bed? Soap in her eyes?* Wad of forgotten dog fur wrapped around her whatuzzit?
I grabbed a towel and pulled her out. As I held her on my shoulder, Abbie reached out to the bathroom shelves, and I realized why she wanted out of her bathtub. Earlier in the day, Abbie found The Most Annoying Toy in the World, her elephant organ, from its hiding spot, so I hid it in a new spot on the bathroom shelves. The last hiding spot lasted for months, the new one didn’t make it through the night. With her bath time cut short, we had a few spare minutes before bedtime, so I let her play the elephant organ naked for a few minutes on the bathroom floor by herself. I used my unexpected spare time to brush another wad of loose fur off the dog.
* You know the shampoo that claims “no tears?” They lie.
Ellie started warning me that the dog needs a bath weeks ago. I had no counterargument to “she stinks” because it was true. I just didn’t want to spend the time and money to have her professionally groomed like we did at least four times a year back when we had disposable income. For what I’d spend having her professionally groomed, I could buy one of those comically large boxes of diapers found in the warehouse club stores, the kind that hold enough diapers to keep the twins wrapped in relatively dry plastic for more than an entire week. Recently Ellie’s warnings grew more urgent with an underlying threat that she was going to take matters into her own hands and, cost be damned, she was going to schedule the grooming visit herself. And if she scheduled the grooming, I would likely have to take the dog to the groomers at an inopportune time, like during Abbie’s naptime, or worse, during my naptime.
I took preemptive action to save my nap and gave the dog a bath myself. We already had a nearly full bottle of dog shampoo in the cupboard, so all I had to do was fill the tub with water and throw the dog in. Literally, I had to throw the dog in the bathtub; she hates baths. She has willingly jumped in a lake or other swimming area on occasion for a couple minutes of dog paddling, so I know she doesn’t hate or fear water. If there’s a possibility that soap could be involved though, she avoids water like the Astros manager avoids taking responsibility. No doubt the dog’s love of swimming but hatred of bathing will prepare me for the day when Abbie discovers she can fight back when I lather her up.
Once I locked the dog in the bathroom, things progressed fairly smoothly. She didn’t struggle much to escape the bathtub, though she did insist on resting her front paws on the tub so as to minimize contact with the water, and to shorten the escape route should I turn my back for any foolish reason like preventing Abbie from climbing in the tub. By the way, how did I juggle a soapy dog that wants nothing more than to escape the tub, and a wriggly toddler who wants nothing more than to climb in the tub, or possibly just poke said soapy dog? Very carefully.
After rinsing, I toweled her off, gave her a blow dry, brushed the loose fur off her, brushed the loose fur off her, brushed the loose fur off her, brushed … let’s just say I’m still picking loose fur off her. And the carpet. And the sofas. And the bed.
I gave the bathtub a thorough wiping to clean the loose fur out of it before Abbie’s regular bath that night. Usually Abbie loves her bath, but she put up a struggle last night. About the time I finished soaping her up, she started screaming and actively trying to climb out of the tub, two maneuvers that the dog wishes she had thought of. I couldn’t figure out why Abbie suddenly wanted out of the tub so badly. Tired, cranky, and ready for bed? Soap in her eyes?* Wad of forgotten dog fur wrapped around her whatuzzit?
I grabbed a towel and pulled her out. As I held her on my shoulder, Abbie reached out to the bathroom shelves, and I realized why she wanted out of her bathtub. Earlier in the day, Abbie found The Most Annoying Toy in the World, her elephant organ, from its hiding spot, so I hid it in a new spot on the bathroom shelves. The last hiding spot lasted for months, the new one didn’t make it through the night. With her bath time cut short, we had a few spare minutes before bedtime, so I let her play the elephant organ naked for a few minutes on the bathroom floor by herself. I used my unexpected spare time to brush another wad of loose fur off the dog.
* You know the shampoo that claims “no tears?” They lie.
posted by Matt at
10:03 PM
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