To paraphrase an old song by Albert Hammond: they say it never rains in Southern California, but it pours, man, it pours. After being deluged by heavy rains, our drenched yard became soggy and soft. And Ruby, our cute little puppy, discovered the joys of mud. See the below photo.
The tune in my head quickly changed to a twist on a classic song from Snow White: we dig, dig, dig, dig, dig, dig, dig in the yard the whole day through, we dig, dig, dig, dig, dig, dig, dig, it’s what we like to do. Her coat was coated. In thick sticky mud.
I knew trouble was brewing when my husband referred to Ruby as “your” dog when I inquired about her whereabouts. It was a throwback, reminiscent of misbehaving children who quickly became “your” child, like a game of hot potato.
She’d had the time of her life digging a hole to the center of the earth in our flower bed. The walkway was strewn with plant debris and caked in mud. She stood at the scene of the crime, peering at us with sweet puppy dog eyes, trying to appear innocent. But her mud mustache was a dead giveaway.
We prayed she wouldn’t shake her body and fling mud all over us before we got her bathed. My husband stood outside what he hoped was the splash zone and tossed a large beach towel on top of her. Then, he rolled her up like a California burrito and transported her wriggling mud-encrusted body to the tub. A suburban animal wrangler.
Man’s best friend? Most of the time. But other times…
