October 25
Chap was a real pain in the ass tonight. I parked the truck by a sorghum field in southwestern Kansas and, though it was dark, let him out to run around. He promptly ran off. I called for him, but he did not return. No big deal, I thought. This has happened before. He always comes back in twenty minutes or so.
I was about to light my pipe and do a little reading on this surprisingly mild high plains evening when I heard the familiar jingle of Chap’s collar. He was limping and I ran to him. Just sandspurs in his paws, I discovered. As I removed them I noticed that Chap reeked. My hands stunk from handling him. He had found a carcass in the sorghum and had perfumed himself, in the manner that dogs will, with the enthusiasm of a legendary French whore. He had rolled in the mess.
I considered making Chap sleep outside. But the temperature could drop, and the forecast called for rain. Maybe he could spend the night in the cab. But the passenger’s seat would stink for weeks. There was no lake or stream nearby in which to bathe him, and anyway I didn’t want him to soak the inside of the camper. Reluctantly I opened the door and loaded Chap into the rear of Squatter.
He stank. I mean it was unbearable. I filled a pitcher with water and grabbed my dog shampoo, then carried Stinky Chap to the dirt road to bathe him.
Chap loves water. He will gladly retrieve anything you toss into a lake. Chap loves to be petted. Every morning he whines until I scratch his head. He loves new smells. He often rides with his nose out the window. But when you combine the three, Chap rebels. He detests baths. He shrank from the water I poured over him and tried to creep away as I sought to replace the perfume he had taken such pains to acquire with the scent I preferred. Chap was offended. In his view, he’s the one with the sensitive nose. I was an olfactory buffoon. I affected an air of stern indifference. “Chap,” I told him, “I outrank you on the food chain and don’t give a damn if you’re pissed off. So you might as well just stand there and quit complaining.” He glared at me and stood still.
After the bath I toweled him off and loaded him into the camper again. He gave himself an extra shake then turned around to face me. His was wagging his tail. I had forgotten that only humans bore grudges.
I was about to light my pipe and do a little reading on this surprisingly mild high plains evening when I heard the familiar jingle of Chap’s collar. He was limping and I ran to him. Just sandspurs in his paws, I discovered. As I removed them I noticed that Chap reeked. My hands stunk from handling him. He had found a carcass in the sorghum and had perfumed himself, in the manner that dogs will, with the enthusiasm of a legendary French whore. He had rolled in the mess.
I considered making Chap sleep outside. But the temperature could drop, and the forecast called for rain. Maybe he could spend the night in the cab. But the passenger’s seat would stink for weeks. There was no lake or stream nearby in which to bathe him, and anyway I didn’t want him to soak the inside of the camper. Reluctantly I opened the door and loaded Chap into the rear of Squatter.
He stank. I mean it was unbearable. I filled a pitcher with water and grabbed my dog shampoo, then carried Stinky Chap to the dirt road to bathe him.
Chap loves water. He will gladly retrieve anything you toss into a lake. Chap loves to be petted. Every morning he whines until I scratch his head. He loves new smells. He often rides with his nose out the window. But when you combine the three, Chap rebels. He detests baths. He shrank from the water I poured over him and tried to creep away as I sought to replace the perfume he had taken such pains to acquire with the scent I preferred. Chap was offended. In his view, he’s the one with the sensitive nose. I was an olfactory buffoon. I affected an air of stern indifference. “Chap,” I told him, “I outrank you on the food chain and don’t give a damn if you’re pissed off. So you might as well just stand there and quit complaining.” He glared at me and stood still.
After the bath I toweled him off and loaded him into the camper again. He gave himself an extra shake then turned around to face me. His was wagging his tail. I had forgotten that only humans bore grudges.
posted by Jeb Butler at 2:41 PM
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