Our Sunday walk started off really nice. It was bitterly cold but it was a good cold. One of those "glad to be alive" colds. We saw lots of birds: hawks, woodpeckers, cardinals, and blue herons. Andy sniffed to his heart's delight and got to pee on trees and clumps of grass. We crossed bridges; we walked up hills. We visited the local fish hatchery and watched the rainbow and golden trout swimming in their pens. It was a productive walk, one that revved up our appetites and had us ready to consume massive amounts of food at a local Indian buffet afterwards. It was a perfect walk. And then it happened.
Andy caught us off guard for just a split second and the next thing we knew he was on his back rolling away with utter abandon. My husband tugged and pulled at the boy's harness but he absolutely refused to get up. When it was all said and done Andy, and his Thundershirt, were covered in patches of poop. Arg. It's not like this hasn't happened before but something about this incident was particularly irksome. I'm pretty sure it was because my husband and I were both starving and Andy's little bout of rolling meant we had to give him a bath once we got home, which further meant we would have to delay feeding our hunger pains. Sigh.
We drove home in poop-scented silence. We marched Andy straight to the tub. He got a thorough wash-down with some Earthbath Eucalyptus Peppermint Dog Shampoo (which I plan on reveiwing later this week). His collar, harness, Thundershirt, and the car-seat cover all went into the wash. Once the pup was dry we bi-pedal folk hightailed it to the Indian buffet. And gorged. On the bright side, Andy was just about due for a bath anyways. But why the heck does he have to roll in the feces of other animals to finally get there? And with such frequency? And so it goes...the ups and downs of adopting a shelter pup.