I went to the vet the other day for Ozzy's jabs. She told me I had to wash Ozzy because he smelled. I told her that we had just returned from the forest. Ozzy, I pointed out, is not a little pooch who sits on Mummy's lap. ( Actually he does sometimes. He is so big and so affectionate, it turns into a yoga exercice.) He is a macho intact male and when he is in the forest he bathes in filthy pools, rolls in horse manure, mud, a decomposing bird, decomposing leaves, that sort of thing. No wonder he smells.
Bathing Ozzy means wearing protective clothing. My waterproof sailing gear, actually. It is an outside summer job. I need to get the hosepipe out. He hates it, detests it.
Thank you to Cornish Dreamer: "Your compassion for animals always shows on the blog entries that you write and I find that to be a compelling reason to continue reading your blog." and to Violets Vintage: "You are an artist because you transform misguided dogs into perfect pets!" and to Winchester Whisperer: "You are the voice of reason."