The Moments in Life When You're Reminded of Nature, Not Just Canine, but the Human Kind. Humbled. So Gross.

I have no idea how she got out, because there's no evidence anywhere. Maybe a couple places where she could be like a mouse and stretch her body in crevices that make it possible, but I see no location where it was likely. It doesn't matter. She got out. That's the point. In dog years, the instinct is to get out and be free from age 1 to age 3...maybe 4...and with leashes, commands, and "human comfort," it's always the WTF?

This is my 4th dog, so I rolled with it (pun, unintended). I got a cup of coffee, went out front, whistled, clapped, and hoped she was in the immediate area. I was lucky. She was down the street wagging her tail at two men digging a trench in a neighbor's yard. Actually, she was smart, trying to get in the back yard of her dog-friend. I would, too. That backyard is all treats, sprinting, toys, and joy. I ignored her, and she saw me bringing in the recycling and trash bins. It triggered something in her, so she sprinted to our front door to be let in, all excited about her mini-adventure.

I saw the wet spots on her back immediately, animal scum....the fluid, black ooze and dripping from her fur.

Karal found her first dead animal. She obviously rolled in it. Possum? Skunk? Squirrel? Raccoon? It doesn't matter. It was decayed carcass and smelled like hell. No, it smelled like oil, fish, and the breath of Satan. 

Obviously the collar had to come off and she needed a bath. Her comedy, however, was in full display. The tailed wagged proudly and with both pomp and circumstance. She was like the ladies I used to watch with their husbands at Estee Lauder and Lancome. 

"Smell me," she seemed to be saying. "Doesn't it smell great? Do you love me even more now?"

Um, no. I wanted to gag. 

She wanted to hide from me. She knew I was going to wash off her perfumed death and give her a bath. She's always good about a good washing, but was resistant this time. She smelled of earth, Men's locker rooms, and 7th grade armpits. Why wouldn't she be resistant? This was divine.

Dog life. Work life. That is, you witness and watch the behavior of others and wonder, "How can they possibly think this is a good idea?" But they do. And they roll in it. And they look around as if, "Look at me. I'm fully delicious and I'd think you'd love me even more."

No. You smell like $@#!, and it's gross. There is nothing attractive about it. I will bathe you, work with you not to be so repulsive again, and hope for the best. She's just being her beastly self, and my domestication counters her instinct. She wasn't sprayed - that's another story of other dogs. But she galavanted upon the fragrance of death with absolute glee.

I can't fault her. It's what they do. And I can only control how I react. It's same in the working life. If the instinct of others is to roll in crap, that's what it will be. The will of how to respond...well, that's up to me.