It must be spring - Angus rolls in death

SLOWLY BUT SURELY there are signs spring is here. It's still too chilly to walk the dogs without a jacket, but the grass is getting greener and there are hopes we'll get past 50 degrees soon.

When things thaw out it can be messy for the dogs. They like to roll in the mud and dig for moles on their morning walk. They love a good roll in death, and it's really nasty.

Death usually means some sort of animal has died and is decomposing. The dogs are fascinated by this wonder of nature and they look at me and say, "Well, it's death. And it needs to be rolled in so we smell bad. We're dogs dangit!"

This morning it was Angus' turn, and he coated himself in something nasty. It was so bad I had to roll down the windows on the ride home, with the 35-degree air blasting us from all sides. When I got home I told Sheryl her dog needed a bath, and she cheerfully obliged. "Well, they are dogs. This is what they do," she said.

She complimented Angus on finding the nastiest chunks and getting them in the most interesting spots. When finding a new patch of disgust she oooh'd and aaah'd about how creative Angus was in the nastiness he had found. Angus thoroughly enjoyed his bath.

Happy and Clean, again.

I guess it's no different than me smoking a cigar - Sheryl thinks it's a gross habit and won't go near me when I'm puffing away. Thank goodness, like the dogs rolling in death, I only do it once in a while.

I'll try to keep a closer eye on the dogs on our walks, but they sneak away and seem to enjoy finding death to roll in. It's like a perfume to them and a badge of honor, and they can't help it, even though it makes my eyes water and it means a bath for them when they get home.

Blech. Double blech. But the dogs don't care and we'll have to give them baths for as long as they live. After all, living large means rolling in death. For a dog.