An epic struggle

Today we gave both our dogs baths, which always provides (a) a good stretch for the hamstrings, (b) a complete wipe-down of every surface in the bathroom, and (c) an interesting study in the philosophy and application of non-violent non-cooperation. Oh, and (d) clean dogs.

I'm not sure why the dogs hate baths so much, since they are both part Labrador and they love water. But somehow there is a difference between a swim in the lake, a stroll through a cool mountain stream, a wallow in a mud bog - and a bath. I mean, what's not to like? It's getting wet (which they like) and getting petted (which they like) all at the same time. We even use nice warm water, which empirical experimentation has shown they prefer to cold water. Nonetheless, the dogs clearly hate to be bathed and have evolved a philosophy of non-violent non-cooperation which would make Martin Luther King Jr. proud.

Here's how it goes. Setup: Remove all paper items from the bathroom. Collect extra towels, a tub of liver treats, and baby shampoo. Set up the hand-held showerhead-on-a-hose and prime it with warm water. Change into swimsuits.

Then, call the dogs while shaking the tub of liver treats, to see if we get a volunteer. If none arrive, drag a dog in and shut the door. Interestingly, both dogs will at that point voluntarily jump into the tub. It's unclear whether this is part of their philosophy of nonviolent resistence, or whether they are just whores for freeze-dried liver. But once they're in the tub we can pull the shower curtain closed and begin our well-practiced bathing ritual.

I take the front end and Enrico takes the back. We wet, lather, and rinse as quickly as we can, one person keeping a firm arm between dog and shower curtain at all times, and cooing a constant stream of soothing praise and reassurance. "Brave dog, the bravest dog ever! Such a good dog!"

The dog, meanwhile, tries a variety of resistance strategies. If they see an opening at the edge of the shower curtain, they may make a break for it; but ever since Toby brought the entire spring-loaded shower rod down upon himself, complete with curtain, he's shunned that strategy. They hang their tails and point their little noses downward in a practiced look of complete, put-upon persecution. They refuse to stand up, sitting in the soapy water and putting their hind end off-limits to our bathing efforts. They plant their little feet on top of our bare feet and dig their considerable toenails into our flesh as we struggle to maintain our balance on the slippery, soapy tub. They shake vigorously when they're covered with soap, and adamantly refuse to shake at the end of the bath when we actually want them to. They stubbornly wait until they are out of the tub to shake again, in order to throroughly drench the entire bathroom.

Nonetheless, we have this down to a science, and we always win. Once they're done, they stomp around the house, rubbing themselves dry on every available piece of furniture. They are of course not allowed to go outside until they dry - lest they roll their wet selves in the dirt - so the post-bath protest also features frequent whining at the back door, requesting the exit visa that they know full well is not forthcoming. Finally, they melodramatically settle down to the task of licking their fur clean of the terrible, terrible cleanliness that we have imposed on them.


Meanwhile, one of us wipes down Every. Single. Surface. in the bathroom. Baths during The Season of Great Shedding are always a special treat, because while it has the beneficial effect of expediting the shedding process, it also leaves the bathroom thoroughly encrusted with a paste of dog fur.

But, then they are fluffy and oh so soft, and smell like baby shampoo, and it's all worth it.