The problem with global warming and seventy degree temperatures in a NY January is the instinctive trigger to find a little Spring in your step. Taking advantage of the abnormal warmth, I decided to give Baby, the dog, a bath and rid her of her winter smell. I heaved all 115 lbs of her golden fur into the tub to scrub her down - a feat Odysseus must of felt while slaying Penelope's suitors. As soon as I let her outside to dry, however, I noticed she was rolling in a pile of leaves towards the back end of my yard.
Ah, possum. Oh, Beautiful, decaying, winter thawing carcass and the instinct of the canine breed. Baby returned to my house coated in rodent tar and sticky with intestinal goo. The smell won the prize and earned her another bath. Now, I suppose such an incident should cause strife and turmoil in a postmodern world, but I find comfort that nature always runs its course. Whereas I was jumping the gun for the arrival of daffodils, Baby, too was enthusiastic to premier a fresh perfume of roadkill to celebrate the unusual weather. Although I had a frown on my face (understatement) Baby was rather proud of her Pep E. Le Pew olfactory accomplishment.
It is natural to be reborn on nice days. This January resurrection made me happy.
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Baby's alter-ego buddy played a similar wash-me-if-you-can game this Fall. While enjoying outside warm water, he waited until totally suds, then slipped his collar and raced through the neighborhood. Once caught, re-sudsed, he slipped again--not once, but twice more before I finally hog-tied him for the final rinse. Got his quota for the year.
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