Hail, Knight of Disgusting Practices, pt. 2

In the place where we live, the only large animals aside from deer and elk are the half-wild cattle and the thoroughly-domesticated though powerful and often ill-tempered horses. These creatures are accustomed to dump wherever they choose.

This would be no great problem, for in an open-range country one does become resigned to watching where one steps. However, ONE of our company - and Ghost, I shan't mention any names here - though normally the most delicate and courtly in his habits, does for some reason take delight in rolling in horseshit.

Again, normally no great problem. Horseshit dries very quickly back to its principle ingredient of half-digested hay, and in that state is very far from the most objectionable shit in which one could roll if one were the shit-rolling sort.

Alas, yesterday our - unnamed, Ghost, unnamed - young friend found some truly, superlatively fresh horseshit.




And what, I wondered, are we going to do about this? Ghost - Aw, damn, dude. I'm sorry, did I mention a name? - Anyway, Ghost is a very fine fellow under normal circumstances. He knows that I am Uncle Joel, the only human here, the Alpha of the pack, and within certain limits that he finds reasonable he will obey me. But he is no trained-to-within-an-inch-of-his-life automaton: He is a desert dog and there are limits to his subservience. There are boundaries beyond which even the Alpha dares not go, lest it be demonstrated that those many, long sharp teeth are not there for decoration and crunching kibble. I was pretty sure that a bath was very far on the wrong side of those boundaries.

I called my landlady, and she confirmed that to her certain knowledge Ghost has never had a bath in his life, nor would be likely to suffer one gladly. But Ghost spends his evenings and nights in my little lair, and while I'm happy to share it with him the horseshit was not so welcome. What to do?

Ghost is by far the most self-contained of the dogs. Unlike the others, who clamor to be brushed morning and evening, Ghost normally makes himself scarce when the brush comes out. He really doesn't like to be fussed over. But it turned out not to be the problem I feared - I expect that when it dried, all that horseshit was starting to itch somewhat. He received a very stiff brushing, and after he settled down to it seemed to enjoy having the flaky stuff come off.

All over everything, of course. But that's what a broom is for.