I actually got my butt in gear early this morning, early for me, earlier than the hot. I wanted to give the dogs a walk before it was miserable out – and I also had a long list of things I wanted to accomplish outside before miserable tested my Secret. We were only about 500 steps in and Brick dove, head first, into a fresh wet pile of stink. I’m usually quicker, he didn’t give the appropriate body language and I missed it. (Envision a horse when it’s about to roll, that pacey-pace, nose down, legs buckle and *crash!*) Since he’s in a halter and I’m not likely to break his neck, if we’re being honest, when I see the head start to tilt, I just jerk his leash as hard and fast as I can. FISH ON!! From his perspective I imagine it’s a lot like teleporting. One second he’s here – and then he’s not. He was already down but I jerked anyway, pulled him a good 6 feet from his point of origin, but he just kept going, doin the ‘itch’ with his legs kicking in the air. I had time to stop, stare at him and look for signs he was having a seizure, he was so oblivious to the fury about to rain down upon he! All the way home I said mean things, mostly muttered under my breath but Brick could feel it, he knew momma was pissed.

Being a person dabbling in OCD I must plan everything so as we continued our walk I was trying to figure out how I was going to manage the stank and not get set back on my list. If I took him in the house, I would most definitely have to clean the bathroom and myself in addition to all of him. I had just put six new bandaids on and I really wanted to get my money’s worth (no back story, I just have crazy blisters on my heels and needed shoes today) I briefly considered rolling balloons up to my ankles but remember I have the next best thing, muck boots. And Brick, at that moment, was the very definition of muck!

So we got home and I squeezed into the back door yelling at the dogs to stay outside – which is really scary because that never happens, they are never locked outside [intentionally] I go and get the bucket, the soap and trade Brick’s leather leash for a short nylon one. I squeeze back outside, Brick sees the bucket and immediately knows. I did say the word “bath” seventy thousand times on the way home, but with his attention span, I could’ve meant me, the car, Maybe, a bird. But no, the bucket means Brick Bath!

He cried the entire time.

After he dried a bit, and stopped avoiding eye contact, I told him I’m sorry but he’s been told not to roll in poop, if he cuddles with me, the poop could kill me! Not to be outdone, he insisted it is far more likely that he would die of bath and that “I’m” over-reacting. He probably won’t speak to me again before dinner time.

Some boys just never grow up.