Mongrel against Mortal

Is there ever a good time to bathe the dog? Claws clenched, soap suds scattered, threats thundered and suddenly your beloved pride and joy turns from the weight of a miniature dachshund to the lumbering load of a Great Dane. And yet the arrival of guests is always a harbinger of bad tidings - for furry-coated, four-footed friends, that is, with an inbuilt dislike of any body of water that doesn’t resemble a muddy puddle.

It begins with a whisper, a mere baby’s breath upon the wind. The unsuspecting canine is stretched out blissfully unaware of the endless hoovering, cleaning, dusting and its own contribution to the general aroma that is tolerable for family though evidently insufferable for guests, distinguished or otherwise.

But an atmosphere is brewing. Maybe it's the anticipation before the battle, or perhaps it's the slightly too cheerful tone with which the dog’s name is called. The family is poised, one at every exit point, bent double, hands on knees and faces fixed with an expression that would wilt even the most hardened Sunday side rugby player. The canine is cornered.

The hound knows when it is being hunted. Escape is impossible but suddenly the gap under the sofa provides the perfect sanctuary. The battle lines have been drawn; mongrel against mortal.

There is a certain kind of indignity that all dog owners are exposed to with downright alarming regularity. Bath time is no exception. Scuba diving under one’s sofa to retrieve the family pet is not what anyone signed up for and such skills were certainly never mentioned at the adoption agency. Nutritional facts and figures must be able to be quoted backwards and high visibility dog collars must be purchased and yet the willingness to stand out in the rain to allow for a canine comfort break, to fill every jacket and coat pocket with scented small bags and to perfect one’s ability to throw sticks perfectly was never discussed.

Green eyes glint dangerously under the sofa and a low growl omits from the void. Pound coins are pocketed favourably and crumbs are pushed aside. Slowly one hand is extended and with it a bribe - a handful of salty dog chews, as pungent as the aroma due to be addressed. The canine is not stupid and yet a moment’s distraction is all the advantage an experienced dog owner needs. A vice-like grip is swiftly tightened around the dog’s collar. Slowly the extradition process begins.

Cheers like those for a sporting hero shooting the winning goal erupt in the household. The battle has been won but the war is far from over. Mutinous curses and threats are projected from the captured pup. The indignity has switched from hunter to hunted. Perhaps there is such a thing as retribution.

Each step towards the bathtub becomes increasingly difficult as the hound lowers its centre of gravity and weighs heavier, fidgeting restlessly in your arms. If the dog had any doubt as to its impending fate then the instruments of torture laid out in the bathroom were enough to convince her that any chance of clemency was well and truly without real foundation. Instruments of torture in the form of the fluffiest towel the family owned, the most expensive dog shampoo the pet shop could sell and more than a handful of dog treats.

But to the family dog, stripped of all hope and ready to descend into despair, there was but one solution. Howl! Perhaps it was a final farewell to all the dogs in the neighbourhood, perhaps it was a tribute to Sydney Carton, ‘A far far wetter thing I…’

The moment had arrived. One paw, two paws, three paws and a tail and before too long, you have a wet dog and a death warrant on your hands, all in the name of sweetening the aroma for the guests. By this time, both dog and assigned dog washer are unified in the mutual dislike of said guests and the disruption they have caused, albeit unwittingly. Do curtains really need washing for afternoon tea guests? Does the dog really need a claw inspection complete with a shampoo and set?

Hope can be a cruel mistress. There is a moment of misplaced triumph when the drone of the shower is silenced and the flow of water abruptly stops. The hound looks heartened, forgetful of the next stage of this journey into hell. The drying process. To towel dry and risk unbelievable frizz or to painstakingly use the hair dryer on a constant cool shot? The options are limited but so is the time before the guests arrive. A quick towel dry and a gentle blast with the dryer it is then.

Finally, not before time, the dog is released from its watery prison and allowed to have a mad half hour, skidding into every family member to give an excited greeting and to showcase the flowy locks of newly washed fur. Life is good for the four-footed member of the family. For the rest of the household, the troubles are far from over. Time to count the casualties.

A quick glance out the window reveals the figures of the early guests arriving up the path. Could peace not last for even a moment? Panicked shouts from the kitchen answer otherwise ‘Quick! Get the paper towels! That damned dog!’ Maybe the mongrel won the war after all.

Written by Mica Bale