I have certain requirements for my furry animals, dog, cat, or horse. Most importantly, they must come when called. I also insist that they let me touch and manipulate any part, particularly feet, mouth, nose and tail. Regardless of their preference to remain dry, I must be able to bathe them without having to fight with them.
I begin working with a new pet immediately, stroking him all over, sticking my fingers in his mouth and ears, taking food away and giving it back; gently letting him know that it's going to be okay. He can trust me. I keep it up until the animal is relaxed regardless of where I handle him.
That's usually the easy part, and Skid certainly welcomed the petting and soon accepted having his feet, ears, and other ticklish areas touched. We never eliminated his reluctance to drop something tasty from his mouth, though.
The first time that he rolled in something rotten and came to me stinking of ancient carcass, he learned the consequence wasn't fun. It was his first bath. Fortunately, it was still warm outside.
I gathered restraints, treats, and the dog shampoo, hooked up the hose, put Skid's harness on him and attached the leash. He was fine with all of this preparation, watching with his usual alert interest, until I turned the water on and squirted his back legs.
That was not at all okay!
He squirmed, wiggled, and did his best to escape. When that didn't work, he nipped me. It would be the first and last time he purposefully put his teeth to my skin.
I yelled and swiftly fashioned a make-shift muzzle out of the leash, then finished soaking him to the skin. It was harder to get him wet than I had expected; his outer fur showed an almost Labrador Retriever level of resistance to water.
He rolled his eyes at me but stood still. After the initial soaking, he seemed to accept the indignity and I slipped the leash-muzzle off of his nose. He forgave me as I worked the shampoo into a warm lather, and offered little resistance to the rinse.
As soon as I removed his harness, he shook and dashed around the yard in that funny after-bath doggie break dance they do to get dry as quickly as possible.
I finally coaxed him into coming back to me, and began drying him vigorously with a towel. He decided he liked that, and even helped as I briskly rubbed his face, ears, and body.
As the years passed, toweling off became his favorite part of being wet.
He rolled in foulness only a few more times, each time suffering the same consequence. Apparently he decided his favorite cologne wasn't worth the soaking that inevitably followed and he stopped doing it. He's the only dog I've ever known who could resist Eau de Mort. >>
