Yesterday I had a bath, and I don't know what I did to deserve it.
Shane didn't get a bath. Just because he gets all nervous and quivers, Joan thinks he'll bite her by mistake, and then he'll feel contrite and worthless. Come on, Joan, you're so in denial about those so-called "mistakes" he makes with his teeth and your hand. Me, I'm all calm and nice, so I get the bath. Unfair.
Life is so capricious. I mean, you could go through it doing everything right, saying hey to everyone in the hood, paying your taxes, doing your homework, not tipping over garbage pails or stealing or biting or getting in anyone's face, and life just passes you by without so much as a quick peck on the cheek. Yet, you could bite off someone's ear or wiggle your ass while singing "Baby Baby Do Me" or marry a rich guy or have a perfect nose like Cleopatra's, and life licks you all over.
So, what's my crime? I've got big white fur that collects more dirt than a backhoe in a garbage dump. Dirt likes me. Is that my fault? Shane's got fur like a seal; the dirt bounces right back into the atmosphere as soon as it touches him, like a reverse electrical charge. And, oh, the toenail clipping! That's the worst. I'm so scared Joan will miss the end of the nail and cut into my toe. I should be more neurotic, like Shane. I should do some growling and snapping and charging at small animals. Maybe that would keep me out of the bathtub.
Well, I admit it feels good getting massaged, but why does she have to use all that shampoo? Okay, it smells good, and after I'm dry, everyone in the hood says how nice I look, all fluffy, and with the sun's rays dancing on my glorious black-and-white coat, which brings out its natural red highlights while revving up the lowlights. And while I'm in the bathtub, Joan tells me what a good girl I am for not biting her face off even though I'm obviously unhappy with the situation. And she tells me I'll be the most beautiful girl in the entire world, and all the boys will ask me on dates and all the girls will want to be me. And, actually, I do look rather modelesque in a plus-size sort of way after the Joan works her wonders with the hairdryer and fluff brush.
Sometimes, I wonder if it's worth the ordeal of the monthly bath. But, in the end, I realize it's a sacrifice I have to make—you know, for my people, for my dog public. They expect me to look a certain way, and I don't want to disappoint. Yes, life is tricky. I can never figure out why some dogs have nice soft beds and others get tied to a tree for their entire life, or why some dogs get shampooed and coiffed while others get eaten for dinner, or why some get public adulation and others get thrown into dog-fighting rinks. Fine. I guess, given my circumstances, I’ll submit to the monthly bath. But, I’m not going to stop making my chin quiver or pretend that it’s all fun and games. Joan can’t get off without feeling a little bit guilty about all this obsession with cleanliness, especially if Shane gets out of participating every other month.
Oh, what price beauty!
Best wishes, Juno
Shane didn't get a bath. Just because he gets all nervous and quivers, Joan thinks he'll bite her by mistake, and then he'll feel contrite and worthless. Come on, Joan, you're so in denial about those so-called "mistakes" he makes with his teeth and your hand. Me, I'm all calm and nice, so I get the bath. Unfair.
Life is so capricious. I mean, you could go through it doing everything right, saying hey to everyone in the hood, paying your taxes, doing your homework, not tipping over garbage pails or stealing or biting or getting in anyone's face, and life just passes you by without so much as a quick peck on the cheek. Yet, you could bite off someone's ear or wiggle your ass while singing "Baby Baby Do Me" or marry a rich guy or have a perfect nose like Cleopatra's, and life licks you all over.
So, what's my crime? I've got big white fur that collects more dirt than a backhoe in a garbage dump. Dirt likes me. Is that my fault? Shane's got fur like a seal; the dirt bounces right back into the atmosphere as soon as it touches him, like a reverse electrical charge. And, oh, the toenail clipping! That's the worst. I'm so scared Joan will miss the end of the nail and cut into my toe. I should be more neurotic, like Shane. I should do some growling and snapping and charging at small animals. Maybe that would keep me out of the bathtub.
Well, I admit it feels good getting massaged, but why does she have to use all that shampoo? Okay, it smells good, and after I'm dry, everyone in the hood says how nice I look, all fluffy, and with the sun's rays dancing on my glorious black-and-white coat, which brings out its natural red highlights while revving up the lowlights. And while I'm in the bathtub, Joan tells me what a good girl I am for not biting her face off even though I'm obviously unhappy with the situation. And she tells me I'll be the most beautiful girl in the entire world, and all the boys will ask me on dates and all the girls will want to be me. And, actually, I do look rather modelesque in a plus-size sort of way after the Joan works her wonders with the hairdryer and fluff brush.
Sometimes, I wonder if it's worth the ordeal of the monthly bath. But, in the end, I realize it's a sacrifice I have to make—you know, for my people, for my dog public. They expect me to look a certain way, and I don't want to disappoint. Yes, life is tricky. I can never figure out why some dogs have nice soft beds and others get tied to a tree for their entire life, or why some dogs get shampooed and coiffed while others get eaten for dinner, or why some get public adulation and others get thrown into dog-fighting rinks. Fine. I guess, given my circumstances, I’ll submit to the monthly bath. But, I’m not going to stop making my chin quiver or pretend that it’s all fun and games. Joan can’t get off without feeling a little bit guilty about all this obsession with cleanliness, especially if Shane gets out of participating every other month.
Oh, what price beauty!
Best wishes, Juno
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