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My daughter is off work today, and has expressed her commitment to washing both dogs.

The dogs are nonplussed by this.

Boxnoggin tried hiding under my desk, then under my chair, then tried bolting, but it availed him naught. His fuzzy butt is being scrubbed as I type.

Miss B has decided his error was in movement instead of picking one spot and staying camouflaged. Consequently she is under my desk, glaring balefully at the office door.

Pupdate: It doesn’t take long to wash a slick-coated Boxnoggin. He is currently attempting to rub familiar stink from the carpet and his dog bed into his clean coat.

Miss B is still hiding. The Princess thought to ease her mind by washing Boxnoggin first, but the plan seems to have backfired.

Miss B has been located (with my help) and hauled to the tub. She gave me a look of utter betrayal. Boxnoggin is halfway to forgetting the entire incident and is wondering why he’s damp.

Strange sounds coming from the loo. My daughter is informing Miss B that she is a good girl, but protesting will only make the bath take longer and is thus inefficient.

Dog is not convinced.

Boxnoggin has now utterly forgotten his bath. He is wondering why he is damp, wondering where Miss B is, and wondering, for good measure, what the hell is going on in the loo.

While it takes only a few minutes to bathe Boxnoggin, Miss B’s luxurious coat requires more care. Her bath is still ongoing. She is deeply unamused.

Heard from the loo:

Miss B: “WHYFOR DO YOU DO THIS TO MEEEE”

My daughter: “Because you’re filthy, and *I* have the opposable thumbs.”

The water has shut off. Boxnoggin has trotted down the hall to see what may be seen. There has been a mad scramble—I gather Miss B is seeking escape.

…both dogs are free. Miss B is tearing up and down the hall, furious at the insult of being bathed. Boxnoggin thinks she wants to play.

The noise is incredible.

I have heard the Tale of the Bath from my daughter. Apparently Miss B got lost in a towel, ran into the loo proper, then went the other way and promptly heat-butted the door.

It is apparently difficult to wash a dog while one is paralyzed with laughter at said dog’s bath-avoidance antics.

Boxnoggin is already half dry. Miss B is, in my daughter’s words, “Big Mad.” Both dogs smell very fetching (anti-itch shampoo) and HATE HATE HATE it.

Both dogs have been bribed with treats, the better to forget the vast indignity of being bathed. Boxnoggin desires a nap after his exertions, Miss B is too wretchedly furious to sleep.

A measure of peace has returned. Boxnoggin is napping. Miss B is patrolling the house, vainly attempting to ascertain why she is damp and smells of shampoo.

We may all go about our business now. Thus endeth the tale of Bath Day.

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Ragged Feathers

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