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TC, this story is for you.

Gwen Petersen
Posted Sunday, May 29, 2005
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Ranger is a dog. Ranger is not the handsomest canine on the planet. He looks like a cross between a blue heeler and a greyhound mixed with some kind of cattle-herding bow-wow. His doggy coat color is a mix of black, brindle-brown, white, and russet, and so short, the hairs look as if they've been spray-painted onto his frame.

Ranger adores his master, Sam, and accompanies him everywhere he goes, including to his daily work as a carpenter. Sam never raises his voice to Ranger. He doesn't have to. The dog speaks English but with a canine accent.

Ranger is friendly to all, though it's difficult to tell when he's wagging his tail as he has none. But should you happen to be standing in his vicinity, Ranger might mosey over and lean his head against your knee. Glancing down, you'll see two brown eyes gazing up at you. If you don't forthwith caress his head, Ranger will emit a short bark and press his noggin more tightly against your knee. Ignore that invitation for too long and Ranger will woof again and yet again until you comply with his request to have his cranium stroked.

Ranger has only one bad habit. He likes perfume--the doggy kind acquired by rubbing and rolling in something dead, decayed, rotten and revolting. Dousing himself with such odoriferous cologne always results in a soak and scrub session in Sam's bathtub.

Ranger hates being bathed. He'd much rather let his aroma simply wear off, but as Sam has often pointed out, "Ranger, you can't go with me on the job if you stink."

For a time after each bathing, Ranger keeps his addiction to fetid fragrances under control. Then one morning early, while on his rounds of Sam's property, Ranger succumbed to a particularly delicious mixture of road-kill deer guts he discovered on the county road. He couldn't hold back. Nose first, he dived into the mess; he mashed first one shoulder, then the other in the guck; he twisted, he turned, he rolled with ecstasy. He got drunk on the awful emanations from the smelly carcass.

Then he went home to Sam who took one sniff and groaned, "Ranger, you can't come in. You stink worse than a skunk. I don't have time to clean you up. I'm on my way to work, but you'll have to stay here. There's no way you can bring your putrid self on the job. You reek! If I struck a match I could set fire to the fumes you're giving off!"

Sam's scolding went on for quite awhile. In shame, Ranger folded his ears flat to his head. He could only watch as Sam drove away without him. Tucking his absent tail between his legs, he holed up beneath the porch all day.

That evening, when Sam returned from work, Ranger tried to sidle close to his beloved master, but Sam back-pedaled.

"Stay away, Ranger. I don't want you near me till you quit stinking like a dump." Ranger had to remain outside for the night. "I'll bring your food out here," Sam told him.

Next morning, Ranger waited expectantly by Sam's pickup.

"Sorry," Sam said, "you're still disgusting. You gotta stay behind. I'll give you a bath tonight."

Ranger spent another day under the porch, but along in the afternoon, he made a plan. The back door to the house had a knob, one of those shaped like a pump handle. Ranger studied the knob, then he stood on his hind legs, gripped the handle in his teeth and gained entry. He padded into the bathroom, put his front feet on the edge of the tub and hoisted himself over and in.

Sam found him there in the bottom of the tub, stretched out, nose on paws, brown eyes woeful, waiting to be bathed.

"What the---," said Sam.

"Woof," said Ranger.

Ranger went to work with Sam the next day.

I know all this is true as Sam related the incident to several people but it was Ranger who told me the details.

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No, I didn't say that you need to take a bath but the nurse did say sumptin 'bout a shower, Pardner.