Anybody who has ever owned a dog one day will have to face the unpleasant task of giving that dog a bath for one reason or another; either by self-performing or hiring a professional at $50 plus per occasion. Personally, I don’t believe in washing dogs. I don’t think it’s good for their skin or their hair; it washes out all of the oil and that oil is what waterproofs them. Perhaps we should invent some kind of Scotch Guard for Dogs for those bathing enthusiasts, so that the poor animal can have some kind of natural protection. I do, however, believe in brushing my dogs clean and in the case of over-exuberant farm dogs turned loose in the corrals, there’s the old standby of a box of baking soda and a good stiff-bristled brush to remove the “fragrance.”
With the freezing and wet weather being wreaked upon the Pacific Northwet (no typo) this spring, my dogs have stomped the perimeter of their dog pasture into a slurry of red clay, decaying leaves, and remnants of this year’s attempted grass growth. Daily, they patrol these perimeters, ever vigilant for the occasional visiting coyote or raccoon. The sticky mud has begun to coat their lengthy fur with the gooey mass that then hardens into something resembling cement dingo balls.
Noticing that my Border Collie was sporting a fresh limp as well as a thorough coat of fresh mud from head to tail and fearing that he had gotten into another scuffle with his kennel mate, I called the dog forth to examine his wound. Turning the dog on his muddy back in order to accurately view the wounded area, I was astonished by the freshly sculpted clay bangles attached to the belly fur of this unfortunate canine. He fully resembled something that I had seen on Animal Precinct, leading me to disclaim any previous knowledge or interest in this beast. The wound was superficial, a mere scrape. At least this was not another $300 visit to the veterinarian.
Crap! There’s two inches of fresh snow on the ground and this outside only dog is in desperate need of a good bath. Just what I wanted to do on a Sunday afternoon – wash a muddy farm dog for the second time in his entire eight-year life. This is not going to be fun.
Grabbing a king sized sheet to cover the freshly vacuumed carpet, I carefully spread it out full length and width and organized the grooming tools; scissors, wire bristle brush, natural bristle brush, doggie comb. Retrieving the dog from his ½ acre-plus kennel, the dog gladly came into the warmth of the house and quickly made himself available for what he knew would be a welcomed grooming.
I carefully cut away the softly clinking chunks of mud from his belly, leg feathers, and trousers, trying to be careful not to massacre him in the process and piling the sticky debris in a safe corner of the sheet for disposition later. (This ol’ girl only gets up off the floor a limited amount of times in one day.) The dog cooperatively laid on his back, making his underside area easily available, while the cat carefully examined the growing pile of removed hair and ultimately offered his assistance by laying in the mass; which of course, he redistributed throughout the entire house, with particular attention to the family room. My God! What a mess!
The dog lazily snoozed while I carefully picked, snipped, and combed his fine hair into something that resembled a dog. With the big chunks out of the way, it was now time to head for a bathtub and the waiting oatmeal shampoo and cream rinse.
As we approached the bathroom door, the dog (Angus) did not yet realize that this was to be more than the pleasant experience of following the human to a potty break and enjoy a good ear rub in the process. As he began to slowly comprehend that this was going to involve warm water and soap, fearful anticipation gripped him. He quickly did an about-face in the middle of the room and headed for the door which was now blocked by a 16-pound Ragdoll tom cat that tagged along to harass the victim and entertain himself in the process. I grabbed a fleeting opportunity to push the door shut, just as the cat darted inside, causing said dog to retreat respectfully from the dominant feline in the process.
As I began slowly filling the tub, thinking that I would soak the remaining mud balls off, Angus hugged the closed door, frantically sniffing at the edges hoping to find some kind of an escape route. It was to no avail. Not even the cat would help him.
At first, I tried to pick the objecting 55 pound dog up by cradling his chest and rump and gently place him in the tub, but his squirms of protest quickly put him off-balance and in danger of slipping from my arms and into the claws of the disapproving cat that was observing the entire fiasco from a safe distance behind the toilet. I then grabbed his front legs and tried dragging him in! His muzzle slowly turned to face me, inches away; a menacing expression in his dark eyes. My God! I forgot the muzzle! He’s never bitten anyone, but you never know in these circumstances. Abandoning that idea, I went for the gusto, grabbed him firmly by the nap of the neck in one hand, put my other hand under his flank and in one mighty effort, heaved that dog right into that bath!
Instantly, the water was brown with dirt; no, this was not brown with dirt, this was a soup of muck! Soaking this off wasn’t going to work so well. I would have to change tactics. Warning the dog to “stay”, I slowly rose to disengage the shower head and take advantage of the hand-held feature while stretching one leg to block his exit. Theoretically, I would rinse most of the mud down the drain, quickly finishing up with the shampoo and cream rinse.
Angus now surrendered to his inevitable fate and stood rather quietly while I rinsed, and rinsed, and rinsed, watching the thick brown liquid ooze towards the drain, all the while wondering if the plumbing would hold up. The cat took station on the bathroom counter, suspiciously eyeing the proceeding, and no doubt communicating silent sneers and harassments to the subdued dog.
Long minutes drug by and the retreating water did not lighten, an indication that I was getting ahead of the mud. Out of desperation, I began the next phase of the operation and slowly began the shampooing, theorizing that the massage of the shampooing would soften and dislodge the remaining debris. One shampoo; two shampoos; I notice the water is beginning to collect in the bottom of the tub, no longer freely draining. Great. The drain is plugging. My husband’s going to love me tonight.
I then unscrewed the drain plug and removed it entirely in hopes of relieving some of the stoppage and allowing the mud to pass. The results were not encouraging. Proceeding with the final leg of the process I administered lavish quantities of cream rinse on the thick, black hair, paying particular attention to the tail and trousers, massaging it well into the dense winter fur. A final rinse and all would be well.
We’re now 45 minutes into this operation, my back aches from bending over this stupid tub, and the rinse water is still tan at best. To hell with it! This will just have to do. I held the dog in place waiting for the level of the water to minimize before removing him, soggy paws and all, but by now, the water wasn’t budging. Wrapping my thickest of the pile of towels around this freshly laundered canine with dripping paws, I invited him out and out he came with a vengeance and immediately plunged himself vigorously into the bath mat and walls, rubbing and scraping while scouring the immediate area for that nice fluffy, dry cat, perhaps to settle things up a little.
Angus’ ecstatic and enthusiastic preening catapulted him out of my arms and from underneath the protective towel. Twisting and leaping for the escaping dog with everything my old, fat body could render, I caught a glimpse of what I was sure was a puma that had somehow snuck into this room during the fray! I was met by a pair of glaring blue eyes that fixated threateningly at the gyrating collie. My beloved Ragdoll had now morphed into the Halloween cat from hell, pressed against the bathroom wall, back arched and a tail stiff resembling a toilet brush. I immediately burst into hysterical laughter at the sight of the-cat-who-would-not-be-intimidated who was at this instant in full battle stance facing an intruder that he no longer recognized.
Angus was oblivious to any immediate danger and continued his frantic attempts to rub off the stench of clean, mixed with frequent bouts of vigorous shaking, which in spite of my finest efforts to minimize, resulted in a rich deposit of spackle of earth tones on every surface below three feet of that bath.
Four bath towels, three bath mats, and a load of laundry later, the chore was done and the dog was as clean as he was ever going to be. A final grooming and an afternoon indoors to dry while I scoured walls and cabinets finalized it and I returned a freshly scrubbed and relieved Angus to his separated dog pasture, fresh air, and a reunion with his kennel mate.
It’s been two days now and the specific muscle group involved in bending over a bathtub while washing a dog has become painfully apparent. Paying a groomer $50 or $75 for this service is a buy! Suffice it to say, in anybody’s book, washing a country dog is a pain in the ass.
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dog, dog wash, country, groomer, cat, Ragdoll, Border Collie
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