Last week, I finally realized that there was just no avoiding the fact: my dog's overwhelming scent rivaled that of a skunk with halitosis that had just eaten a giant wedge of Stinking Bishop, the world's smelliest cheese. The dreaded hour had arrived. It was...Bath Time.
I was brought forth from the bathroom this morning in emotional disarray, fully convinced, by the sounds Barnaby was making, that in the five minutes he'd been alone he'd fashioned a bear trap out of the coffee table and had gotten stuck in it. But no. My dog's full-on cry for help was initiated by the loss of his Squeaky Rubber Kong Toy under the bed.
My beloved pooch hit week four of being in this apartment and something flipped in his synaptic connections, some switch that was telling him at first that the apartment was mine and he just lived there has suddenly started telling him that this space is his personal kingdom, and his new mission is to disabuse me of the notion that I am in charge of it.