Stray Dogs Don't Get Baths

“You are blessed,” my mistress says to me, “stray dogs don't get baths. No one cares enough for them.”

I don't feel blessed as I am carried to the water place. I knew as soon as she picked up the water carrying away cloth that this horrible bath thing was going to happen.

Now she pours the water over me, getting me wet and taking away the natural scent I have been working on for a week now. She is my mistress, my world so I won't bite her. Never! Anyone who tries to harm her will feel my teeth, never her though, no matter who many baths I get.

“I will take away the itches too.” She continues to tell me as she adds the dreaded soap, rubbing it deep under my fur.

The itches! No, I don't like them at all. If these baths make them stay away, is it worth it? Maybe.

“You're family. Family has to stay clean. No stinkies.”

My tale wags against my will. No wagging in the horrid bath! It was the word family that made it move. Family means living inside and sleeping beside her on our bed. It means good food and cold water is always available. Safety. It means safety.

I like my stink though, to smell like a dog. Tradeoffs.

More nasty water flows over me. I endure it in silence. She lifts me up, wrapping the water taking away cloth around me.

“Now I know you feel better getting the fleas and dirt off.” She coos in that gentle way that makes me love her more, even as she does bad things like bath me.

I won't confirm that. Nope! Not even as my skin is soothed by the itchy things being taken away. I must be aloof and angry, no matter how well I feel. It is my responsibility as a dog. All I give her is a deep sigh. She doesn't have to know it is due to the contentment of being clean.

“Alright, here you go,” She sits me back on the floor and I shake the rest of most of the water off. She laughs as some hits her, “I guess I deserve that.”

Oh but she doesn't. She deserves nothing but all the things that make her happy, even joyful! I didn't mean to get her wet.

Running into the living room, I climb on the couch, rolling around on the blanket that lays there. It helps get the rest of the water off. Ahh, better.

I lay down and sigh in relaxation as I drift into sleep.

Ah walks. I know when she lifts up the leash what it means. My whole body wiggles and shakes in anticipation. Running down the stairs, I pull mom. A quick jerk reminds me that she is on the other end. Oops. I just get so excited. The smells man. All those amazing smells. Especially on the day mom calls trash day, when the walkway is lined with those wonderful smelling cans. The smelliest ones mom tries to pull me away from me the fastest. She doesn't appreciate the glorious smells as much as I do.

I also have to, as mom puts it, do my business. I have to find the perfect place. It cannot be someplace with a lot of other dogs smells, or even worse, the dreaded cats. I prefer to pee over another dog’s mark. After all, it is important they know I am here and top dog. It doesn't matter where I poop because mom picks it up. I couldn't say why. She always says what a good girl I am when I go though. I really want to be a good girl, always.

Other scents tell me exactly who is in the neighborhood. Unknown scents bring me to attention. Every dog in the area is known to me. The cats too. No, I don't like them, the cats. But mom says I mustn't run after them. That frustrates me. But I want to be a good girl so I try to refrain from my natural instincts.

Oh, that isn't good. Someone mated here. I mated once. I wasn't a good girl then. Mom had called for me. Chased me even. My body just took over. Mom scolded me after she finally caught me with the other dog. I hate to be scolded. What I hated even more is what happened after.

I started to feel sick. My belly started to grow. Then I felt something moving around inside me. Mom said I was something called pregnant and would have puppies. She sounded so disappointed.

I got so big I could barely walk. Mom had to help me onto our bed.

Then I started to hurt. Mom was there, petting me gently and speaking gently to me. It got worse and I screamed. Then the first puppy slipped out. I had to clean it. It wasn't nice. One was followed by more and more.

Mom called me their mama. I had to see to them, feed them, and for a month, I wasn't allowed to sleep with mom. I had to stay with the puppies. No, I didn't like it. I don't want to do that again. I will be a good girl and come when my mom calls.

I feel bad for whatever dog mated. She was a bad girl and won't like what is going to happen.

“Oh!” Mom calls out. She is stressed and I immediately alert, looking for a threat. Nothing will happen to my mom while I am with her. I didn't see anything at first. Then I smell it. Death. It has a unique smell. What has died? I let out a low whine. A dog lays on the street.

The street. Mom won't let me walk on it. She keeps me to the side of it. Is that why? Those cars. Is that what happened?

“Poor thing. He was a stray. No one looked after him.” She drew me away and we headed home.

“Stray dogs don't get baths.” Maybe baths aren't so bad.