Hot Dog On A Roll

Molly-o does not remember and did not know.

Molly-o does not remember and did not know.

MY DOG IS ON A ROLL, literally. Though I have varied my routes on our afternoon walks and attempted greater vigilance, Molly has managed to find some disgusting thing to roll in a record three times this week. To my obscenity-laced charges of lewd and obscene behavior she invariably pleads insanity and is speedily acquitted, but we are both sentenced to one bath (she for instigating, me for disturbing the peace).

We both hate our punishment at first, as preparations are made: Molly shackled at the bottom of the stairs fretting about what lies ahead while I grab dishwashing liquid, peel off layer after layer of winter clothing until I am down to my t-shirt, then turn on the telltale  shower; me having to come perilously near the foul-smelling goo as I pick her up to lift her over the side of the bathtub, wriggling like a dolphin (it does not help that she hates tile floors and tight spaces).

It is over quickly. The slime washes off quick as a guillotine beneath jets of warm, soapy water and we relax, both enjoying her massage and the toweling off, Molly liberated, damp, restored to my good graces. Then it is time for dinner.

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