The other night there was a funky odor in our house, and since we had Mexican food for dinner, we assumed it was our digestion. We assumed wrong.
After the side effects of the nacho bar subsided, the stench lingered. So did the indigestion.
As the dogs gathered around us on the couch, looking for guidance on their activities for the evening, we realized the putrid smell wasn’t our bodies’ aversion to avocados. It was our dogs. Our smelly, smelly dogs.
Before we could think it through, we agreed to give two of the three dogs a bath. All three dogs would be suicide, and since Meatloaf says two out of three ain’t bad, we figured that was good enough for us.
If it’s good enough for a C-level “musician” (term used loosely) named after a meal made entirely of beef, then it’s definitely good enough for the Newlins.
Matt decided to bathe Shady Jack and I took Bentley. We left Max to fend for himself, mostly because we figured he licks himself so much that he’s probably cleaner than most of us, or at least his genitals are, as that seems to be the focus of the licking.
He’s also a good brother and keeps Shady Jack and Bentley’s manly parts clean as well. He’s a stickler for hygiene (except when he eats poop.)
I can’t speak for how the bath went with Shady Jack, but I saw the bathroom afterwards and it looked like a massacre of small animals in there. It was like Dexter’s work room, only instead of blood it was hair; lots and lots of black hair. And instead of killing, it was bathing.
Okay, so it wasn’t like Dexter’s work room at all.
Bentley, on the other hand, didn’t so much shed as he did shake and whine the entire time as if he was being assaulted.
He’s a drama queen, and not a fan of baths (or other dogs, or anything that suggests he’s an animal or inferior to anything). If he could talk, he would have screamed obscenities and most likely called the authorities to report the obvious abuse.
He would also most likely complain about his horrendous living quarters, as he only has 2 pillows to sleep on. What is he? An animal? Pft!
I bathed Diva Bentley in the kitchen sink, as he’s five pounds, and the sink is the perfect size to accommodate what he most certainly would refer to as torture.
He strongly disagreed with my plan, and let his position be known through his whining and shaking. I could see his mind working as he tried to plan his escape, all the while screaming out for rescue.
torture bath was done, I attempted to dry him off, which only further infuriated him. The look on his face told me he was wondering “How dare she use a regular towel to dry me off when a velveteen blanket would be more proper? I’m British, after all.”
After the two dogs were clean, their dirt and hair dirtying up our bathroom and kitchen, Matt and I decided to sit down and enjoy the fruits of our labor (and the chocolate fruits from our Edible Arrangement).
As we sat there stuffing our faces with chocolate covered strawberries, we noticed the smell was still there. How could that be, as we bathed Shady Jack and Bentley. Could we be imagining it?
We further investigated and discovered it was Max. Our sweet, sweet Max.
Unfortunately, we bathed the wrong dog. So we did what good parents would do: decided not to give him a bath, but sprayed him down with dog cologne instead.
We’re really good parents like that.