Not In The Job Description

I think The Pony is throwing away his future by planning to study chemical engineering at the University of Oklahoma. He seems to have a brighter future as a Keystone Cop, with on-the-job training provided right here at the Mansion, free of charge.

Sunday, we had to wash Juno. Let the record show that my sweet, sweet Juno rolled in some kind of feces, most likely in an effort to get rid of the liquid flea and tick medicine Farmer H squirted between her shoulders. It was brown and dried on the tips of her fur, like a fancy lady with frosted hair tips. Not that a fancy lady would tip her hair with poop, of course.

I told The Pony to get the Mane and Tail Shampoo. Of course it was nowhere to be found, The Pony being the last one to touch it, back when I told him to put it away before our Easter feast. Or our Christmas feast. Or our Thanksgiving feast. One special meal or another. Just so it was off the kitchen counter. Isn't that were everyone keeps their Mane and Tail Shampoo? I know I told him to put it in the laundry room. But even though The Pony is an exemplary beast of burden, he can't remember how many hooves he has most days. So we had to make do with the Medicated Dog Shampoo that I found on the laundry room shelf, after The Pony had already searched it for shampoo.

Sunday was bright and sunny, temps in the mid-70s by 10:00 a.m., on the way to 82. What better day to wash a black dog? We stole the hose Farmer H had hooked up to the tall spigot pipe that rises from the ground near the well head, over by the chicken pen and Puppy Jack's hutch. Farmer H had been dabbling with filling Poolio, but must have reconsidered, planning instead on letting the rain contribute this week, due to the forecast.

"Let Puppy Jack out. He can run around while we wash Juno. Let's put her in the side yard, where it's all sunny, and close to the hose."

"Letting him out now."

"He'll have to entertain himself. We're going to be busy. I'll hold her and rub in the shampoo. You will wet her down with the hose. Don't get it in her face! Just her shoulders. That's all we need to do for now. Too bad you couldn't find a leash in the garage."

"I thought we used to have one in there. But I couldn't find it." (shocking)

"Here. I've go her. Get her wet. Whoa! Watch her face! You're going to drown her. Hang on, Juno. You're a good girl. Yes you are. What a good doggy. Just washing off your poop. Hold still. JUNO! NO! That's a girl. Almost done. Hand me the shampoo, Pony. Make sure it's open. You squeeze some out. I've got to hold her by the fur. There, Juno. Just some shampoo. To get the poop off. There. Good dog. Yuck! I have brown blobs all over my arms. Pony! Watch out for Jack! You got him wet!"

"He ran under the hose. I didn't do it."

"Here. Rinse her off. More. Just let it run. JUNO! NO! Hold still! There. Good dog. Almost done. Up under her neck, Pony. Don't get her face wet! Don't get the hose under my feet. My Crocs are soaked! So are my pants. There. Rinse her back again. Okay. I'm letting her go. WATCH OUT FOR JACK!"

Let the record show that my dog-washing ensemble consisted of dark-blue print pajama pants, red Crocs, and a yellow-and-white striped cotton oxford shirt. Which all went directly into the wash, except the Crocs, which were put on the back porch rail to dry out.

You would have thought The Pony was wrestling a wild boa constrictor, the way he manhandled that hose. He was better than no helper at all. Jack was happy as a puppy in wet grass. Juno shook like a whirling dervish and took off running around the yard, barking like she does when Farmer H fires up the Gator.

I can't imagine a chemical engineer having such a good time.