…until your mostly-white dog rolls in a foul-smelling brick-colored substance that was at first mistaken for just another patch of dry leaves. I know this, because on the homeward leg of our walk today, Cleo found a patch of…something…and immediately flipped herself over and began wriggling in it, making moves that can only be described as doggy orgasm.

I am not making this up.

I’ve rarely seen her roll in anything. She used to love to run around in freshly cut grass, thus turning her legs green up to the knee, but other than that the only thing she and Zorro ever flipped for (literally) was Eukaneuba.

Yes, the substance that most dogs understand is meant to be eaten, my dogs think is either a sexual stimulant, or a coat enhancer. Either way, even one kibble of Eukaneuba on the floor was enough to send both of them into paroxysms of canine ecstasy.

But at least THAT was behind closed doors.

Cleo’s display today took place in broad daylight, in the middle of the curb strip near the sidewalk, in the suburbs. I am not making it up when I share that even Zorro was embarrassed by her display. He turned his head away from her and gave a little chihuahua snort of utter disdain. (The only thing worse is when the snort is offered in combination with his famous slitty-eyed look.)

It took tugging, clapping, pleading, and – I am admitting this here – bribery with a bit of rollover kept in my pocket for just such emergencies, to get Cleo back on her feet, and marching toward home, where she was rewarded for her behavior with banishment from all furniture until after her bath.

Now, it is a fact that Cleo loves water. She’s jumped into the bathtub (while one of us was bathing) on more than one occaision. She ventures into the swimming pool from time to time. She has special white-dog radar that tells her where the deepiest, muddiest, grossest mud puddles are, and how best to approach her entrance to them. Today, however, she acted like the furry version of the Wicked Witch of the West – warbling with distress when I plopped her in the kitchen sink, and whining like a puppy when I brought forth the Sprayer of Doom.

It should come as no surprise that, once I had pronounced her CLEAN, and released her to go outside and shake off, more water was found soaked into my clothing and apron, and splashed across the kitchen floor, than had possibly gotten onto the dog.

“Oh, well,” I thought, as I looked down at my black shirt and pants, now covered with doggie bathwater and stray hairs (I think dogs share the trait that tarantulas have, of flinging hair when they’re stressed), “everything’s washable.”

And so, for an encore, I gave Zorro a bath as well.

And now, both dogs, having been bathed, brushed, fed, and cuddled into toasty warm dryness, are sleeping peacefully in their usual spots near my desk, though they’re still NAKED, as their collars were also washed, and haven’t yet dried.

And me?
I’m going to bed.

Tomorrow, though, we’re taking a different route on our walk.
One without any curb strips.