This week, however, has not been good for our long walks. Tucker and Angus, the boy dogs, have engaged in the ancient canine ritual of Rolling In Death.
When we humans see roadkill or something dead, we shudder and walk away. Not Angus and Tucker. Their ears go up, eyes widen and their purposeful strides become urgent. "Hey. A dead raccoon. Sweet! Let's go roll in it!" Tucker says.
"I already rolled in it yesterday. But I'll join you because I don't want you to have all the fun," Angus says.
This morning we strolled and I watched them the whole time and didn't see them roll in anything. Yet when we got to the car to head home, Angus was coated in Death and Tucker had it all over his face and neck. Genie, our lovely girl dog, rolled her eyes and said, "Don't get any of that bleep on me, you sick bleeps."
|After bath time in the fire pit. Thanks boys.|
Tucker looks like a drowned rat. He tried the old "sad eyes gazing at my owner" trick this morning, but it didn't work. He's still nasty. Angus has shorter hair and right now he's on the couch next to me, oblivious to the world and dreaming of a great big park with huge Rolling In Death puddles. He is also licking himself like a cat.
Boys are disgusting in general. Boy dogs are just really, really gross. Tucker and Angus don't want to talk about it and seem to think it's no big deal. All I know is that I nearly threw up when they climbed back in the car for our ride home this morning.
Sheryl thinks it is just the time of year and level of decay fall brings. The boys are just wallowing in it a bit too much this year. And we'll wash it off again.