I awoke at 4:45 and walked outside with a cigarette dangling betwixt my lips. I watched as my boys lay quietly in the grass and dirt and then I called them to me. Dirt. Dirtiness. Everywhere, in every place, they were dirty. Lou had a nice scab on his jowls (courtesy of the sharp-toothed wonder, Ollie) and it had filled with--you guessed it--dirt. As Pink Floyd would say, "This. Will. Not. Do."
So I got up and walked to the outside water dish. I topped it off and I walked back to my unsuspecting children--all lounging, lolling pink tongues--and I cupped some water in my hands and briskly rubbed it into Lou's jowls. Oliver looked avidly on, his tail whisper-wagging and his yellow eyes bright with curiosity.
Lou is a good boy, let no one tell you differently. He took the cleaning with a stoic tranquility that would have made Ghandi jealous (had he been susceptible to emotional currents). I got into it, then, chortling maniacal laughter and cupping and splashing and rubbing and cleansing my boy Lou. He took it well and, after all was said and done, the wound on his jowls was not caked with dirt anymore and so I massaged some Neosporin into it and clicked my heels and headed towards Oliver, the metal water dish in my hand.
Oliver backed warily away and sat down at a safe distance, his tail wagging rapidly underneath his haunches. "Come here, Oliver," I said. He didn't, so I ended up going there. With him, I basically unloaded the water over his head and back and briskly massaged out of his thick black hair as much dirt as I could. I walked back over to the spigot and filled up the bowl again. When I turned around to unleash more Cleaning Vitriol, I saw Oliver on his back, in the dirt patch (Dogpatch), doing his damnedest to unseat any progress that I had established.
There is a lesson to be learned, here, and that is this: When you wash your doggy, you have to be prepared, and armed with logic. Don't be a spontaneous ignoramus and say to yourself, "Well, I reckon I'll just get as much dirt off the mofo as possible," and dump a water dish on the canine. Especially do not take this strategic tack when you are a tail-wag away from the ever-beckoning Dirt Patch of Joy.
On the plus side, Louie showed off his big brother instincts, licking the evil H-two-Omigod-it-cleans! from Oliver's fat neck. What a good boy....