Me: “Come on, dog, it’s time for a bath.”

I step into the sunshine to look for the old woman. Company is coming and nothing says “I love you guys” like a smelly dog.

Me: “Bowie?”

I scan the backyard. Bowie-dog is hiding under a hedge. She loves a bath the way I love a rectal exam.

Me: “I know it’s not your favorite thing, but a bath will keep you from The Cancer. From the Cancer of Offending Friends. From the Offriending.”

And because she’s a very good dog, and because she will do almost anything to keep me from making up words, she drags herself out from under the bush, voicing her protest with an exhalation of long-suffering. She may be old, but she sighs like a teenager being prepped for braces. Or slaughter.

Me: “Go. Get in the bath.”

Bowie-dog hangs her head low and shuffles down the hall to the torture chamber. Tweak watches this death march from atop her tower of blankets. Tweak licks a paw and scrubs it over her face, mocking.

Tweak: “Noob.”

Bowie: “Whore.”

Tweak: “Your mother was a honey badger.”

Bowie: “Your father dripped down my leg.”

Tweak: “That’s why you need a bath. Because licking yourself would be incest.”

Me: “Oh my god… STOP IT, YOU TWO!! This is a time of cleansing!”

Bowie-dog dutifully climbs into the tub and I soak her with warm water. I lather her thick black fur with shampoo. Her ears are resigned to dying and she tastes the air like it contains Zyklon B.

Me: “Oh, for heaven’s sake, old woman, it’s just a BATH.”

Bowie: “It’s just a colonoscopy.”

I rinse off the soap and towel-dry her feet and head. I leave the bulk of her heavy wet coat for the sun to evaporate.

I release her from Guantanamo, and Bowie-dog beelines for the back door. But not before Tweak paints a target on herself.

Tweak: “You know… cats don’t need baths.”

Bowie locks and loads, steps deliberately in front of Tweak, and shakes 40 gallons of intolerance onto her throne.

I high-five the dog.

21 July 2014, “Tolerating Tweak”