A Very Wet Injustice

Hello, dear reader. It is I, Winston, writing to you today as a survivor. A victim, really, of the single most traumatic thing that can happen to a canine. I am, of course, talking about The Bath. My Mom made me take one this week, and I am here to tell you, in painstaking detail, exactly how it happened and why she will absolutely rue the day.

It started off like any other afternoon. I was minding my own business, sprawled across the couch cushion I have claimed as my personal throne, when I heard it. The most dreaded sound in the entire English language. “Winston, bath time!” My ears shot up. My stomach dropped somewhere near my paws. Surely I had misheard her. Surely she meant “snack time” or “belly rub time” or literally anything else. But no. She scooped me up before I even had the chance to run, and just like that, I was carried, legs flailing dramatically, straight into the bathroom.

Let me tell you something about myself, dear reader. I have spent weeks, months even, perfecting my scent. It’s a delicate blend of backyard dirt, that one spot by the fence I like to roll in, and whatever mystery substance was on the kitchen floor last Tuesday. It is a masterpiece. A signature. And within minutes, my own mother stripped it all away like it meant nothing to her. Like I hadn’t worked so hard on it. I sat there in that tub, watching my beautiful aroma swirl down the drain, and I have never felt more betrayed in my entire life.

And don’t even get me started on the water itself. First there’s the sound of it running, this awful rushing noise that echoes off the tile and makes my whole body go stiff with fear. I don’t know what that water is planning, but it sounds like it’s up to no good. Then, once I’m actually in it, it’s never right. It’s either scalding hot like she’s trying to cook me for dinner, or freezing cold like she’s testing my will to survive. There is no in between. Not once in my life has the temperature been correct, and at this point I have to assume it’s intentional.

Then there’s the ear situation. Somehow, every single time, water gets into my ears, and suddenly the whole world sounds like I’m underwater at the bottom of a swimming pool. Everything gets muffled and echoey and strange, and I spend the rest of the day shaking my head like a maniac, trying to get the sound of normal back. It’s disorienting. It’s unnecessary. It’s yet another reason baths should be banned entirely.

But truly, dear reader, the worst part comes after. The drying. For an hour, sometimes two, I am forced to walk around looking like an absolute drowned rat. My fur is matted, my ears are flat, and I look nothing like the dashing, dignified Frenchman I know myself to be. It’s humiliating. I didn’t even want to go outside to do my business because I couldn’t bear the thought of the neighbors seeing me in such a state. Those dogs next door already think they’re better than me just because they’ve surrendered their dignity to perform cheap tricks like shaking paws and rolling over. I couldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing me looking like a soggy gremlin too.

So here’s where I stand, dear reader. I’ve put up with this nonsense my entire life, and I’ve officially decided I’m done. I’m taking a stand. No more baths. And since begging clearly hasn’t worked, and dramatic sighing has proven ineffective, I’ve moved on to strategy. I have been developing a list of foolproof plans to avoid this horror from ever happening to me again.

Plan one is hiding. The moment I sense bath energy in the air, I will disappear. Under the bed, behind the couch, wherever I can fit my glorious potato-like body, that’s where I’ll be.

Plan two is pretending to be asleep. Nobody wakes a sleeping dog for a bath. That would just be cruel. I intend to nap my way out of this problem entirely. And get some beauty sleep at the same time.

Plan three, and I’ll admit this one is bold, involves taking a rather large dump on the floor right as bath time approaches. Nothing derails a bath plan faster than an emergency cleanup situation. By the time Mom’s done scrubbing the floor, she’ll have completely forgotten about scrubbing me.

Plan four is faking an injury. A little limp here, a dramatic cough there. I figure if she thinks something is wrong with me, she’ll take me to the vet instead, and frankly, I’ll take a vet visit over a bath any day. At least at the vet they just poke me a little and give me treats afterward.

I know what you’re thinking, dear reader. You’re thinking, “Winston, isn’t this all a bit excessive for something that only happens once in a while?” And to that I say, absolutely not. There is no excuse too small when it comes to protecting my dignity, my scent, and my ability to look my neighbors in the eye. This is bigger than me now. This is about every dog who has ever been dragged unwillingly into a tub of nightmares.

So stay tuned, dear reader, because Operation No More Baths is officially underway. I’ll keep you posted on which plan works first. My money’s on gigantic turd.

Until next time, stay dry, stay stinky,

Winston 🐾