So, you think you have a smelly dog? I had the smelliest. His name was Peter Rabbit. Peter for short. He was a big shaggy dog that tended toward dreadlocks if he didn’t get his hair cut on a regular basis. But I was too cheap to pay a professional groomer, so I gave him one myself. Actually, there are probably better descriptions of the act I perpetrated on my poor dog . . .a shearing . . .a mowing . . . a humiliation. I wish I could blame it on someone else, and proclaim in a loud voice, “Poor Peter, who has done this terrible thing to you?” But I could not deny that it was “my hand that done it.”
Before I get too carried away, let me assure you that Peter probably didn’t mind. He was pretty low maintenance. If he got fed every day, walked on sunny days, and patted on the head occasionally, he was the happiest dog you’d ever know. So he probably didn’t notice things like a terrible haircut.
In my defense, he needed it bad. Peter was eighty pounds of stink and just about the end of winter before the first jonquils of spring had flung their yellow against the cold, Peter started to reek. It’s hard to describe . . .sort of a musky fragrance, sour milk with a heavy cow manure undertone. But he was a farm dog, and didn’t sleep in the house; so bathing him in cold weather would have been out of the question. I had to wait for spring.
Spring had been late coming to Carroll County that year. Even though the iris and honeysuckle were in full bloom, the temperature had remained strangely cool. Pop called it “Blackberry Winter” because it was still cold while the blackberries were blooming.
No bath for Peter.
But finally, the TV weatherman assured me that we were entering genuine spring weather. And when I went to let the dogs out for their morning walk, I was surprised by a down-wind whiff of L’aire du Peter” that convinced me bath time was indeed nigh.
I had to be tricky. Peter also noticed when it started getting warm, and he knew what that meant . . .that he’d be treated to his first bath and haircut of the year. That awareness made the big dog hard to catch. But Peter was a sucker for hotdogs. So after setting up my impromptu pet parlor in the back of the pick-up truck, I went to nab Peter. He fell for it like he did every time. The hotdog overcame his intellect.
I lifted him onto the tailgate and fired up the clippers. Now, you have to understand, Peter was hard on clippers. Perhaps it was the fur. Perhaps it was the stink. But if a dog clipper went up against Peter’s coat, the clippers were going to lose. With that in mind, I had special ordered a heavy-duty set online- the same kind used by professional groomers. It was with those very clippers that I began to plow through the landscape of matted fur.
I shaved Peter’s tail first, leaving a big puff of hair at the end. Just for fun-zies. I shaved one ear, leaving it as smooth as silk. I’d made about five passes across the top of Peter’s back, leaving the fur behind soft and the color of wheat. However, on my next pass, the clipper snared, and seized up, complaining in a high, buzzing whine until I turned them off.
I looked at the clipper. I muttered and scratched my head. I tried to turn it on again. And again. But the clipper wasn’t working. Peter remained unshorn.
At this point, I had a big, stinky sheepdog with a lion’s tail and a stripe down his back. I began anew, this time with a pair of scissors. I had only the best of intentions. I was just going to fade the clipped strip in with the rest of his longer hair. But once I started, I couldn’t stop. I snipped until my hand was sore and all the mats were gone. Of course, most of his hair was gone too.
Have you ever seen a hayfield, after it’s been freshly cut . . . the way it looks as smooth as water? That’s not what Peter’s fur looked like. He looked like the moths had been after him all winter. His poor coat was botched. One of his ears was shaven, one was thatched, and his tail was cropped close, with a crazy puff of fur on the end.
It’s a good thing that Peter was not the sharpest pencil in the box because when friends and family happened upon him, he became the object of much merry laughter. And head pets, and attention, which made him happier than any other dog in Carroll County.
Stinky Pete has been gone for many a year, but when the days start to warm up, and the sweet smell of manure drifts in on the evening breeze, I remember him fondly, and wonder if they do have a dog heaven, he’s probably up there right now, stinking it up for everybody else.