Mary Ann Fitzmorris / L’Observateur / March 25, 2000

A friend telephoned yesterday at the most inappropriate time. I was in the tub,which is not unusual for a caller to be told. But I was in the tub bathing the dog,which is unusual indeed.

It was a cold day, but I have come to bathe the dog in the tub regularly since it is impossible to do it outside. When a dog realizes that you actually request thepleasure of his company, he knows a bath is imminent.

Outside, he cannot be cornered, but inside, he is mine. That doesn’t mean I don’thave to work for it. The dog is highly attuned to nuances in my voice, so he was alittle suspicious even before he came in.

When his fears were confirmed he ran through the living room and made himself into a 90 pound carp, which I had to slide across the floor for 30 feet into the bathroom. Lifting him into the tub took all the rest of my energy, so I wouldn’thave been able to talk to my friend because I was panting.

She wouldn’t understand anyway. She never bathes her dogs. They go to the salon.I may be the only person I know who would attempt such a thing. They just don’tremember the fun they’re missing.

After the family pooch has accepted his fate, we begin the long and messy process of cleaning him. For the first several wash cycles the rinse water is black. Really.But my furry friend is stoic, and after what must seem like an eternity to him, we are done. As soon as he senses that his punishment is complete, he jumps out ofthe tub and runs around the house shaking off. Such fun! Everyone screams as we chase the wet dog, who stops only when cornered for more towel drying.

One time we decided to blow-dry the pooch, just like in the movies. (It works betterin the movies.) After a few strokes with my fingers he bolted again, leaving me tolook like the early stages of the transformation to the shaggy dog.

My friends would like to indulge in this endangered practice, I think.

Whenever I’m at their house and their dog is conspicuously absent, we inevitably get into a conversation about these glamour pets, and the grooming. Theyreminisce about the dogs of their youth, when dogs were dogs. Salons were theprivate domain of only Park Avenue poodles.

What I think they miss is the money they are spending for Fido’s day at the groomer. But there are no dogs named Fido in the chair at a salon. They havenames like Hans and Chlo.

All my friends have dogs like this – “dogs with papers.” Such dogs can be verycostly indeed. Dogs with “papers” eat food that comes from the vet’s office. Mydog helps me clean out the refrigerator. Once I absent-mindedly gave a pizza crustto a friend’s dog and she nearly fainted. I’ve been the dog’s best friend ever since.Such hifalutin canines have to be treated differently. You can immediately tell ahouse where such a dog is present. There are a million little flags around the yard.The animal (if you’ll pardon me) wears a collar that shocks him when he crosses his boundary.

One of my friends is having trouble with her dog barking at night. She’s going toput a shock collar back on him. Each time he barks, the voltage increases todiscourage his natural but displeasing behavior. This dog, though, is a veteran ofthe fence of white flags, so getting his attention may require enough voltage to make his fur fly.

My friend may have to resort to a method used before dogs became so important.

The sleeping owner stumbles to the door, opens it, and screams, “Shut up, Dog!” Then she shuffles back to bed, mumbling a string of expletives.

I have a somewhat different approach. When the dog barks excessively at night, Iopen the door and hand him a LARGE bone. I know Pavlov would not approve.Now that I think of it, “Pavlov” would be a swell name for a dog. But only a dog with”papers.”

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