To be a Black Dog

At least just for a little while. I don't think Bracha was laughing, but she was not really angry either. I think she just did not know what to do because she was so freaked out. Here we were, about to have an evening brushing session to get me all ready for the walk with Roi tomorrow morning. Bracha took me out to the orchard and let me off leash. I was good. I repeatedly came back to her and she gave me a couple of treats. And I remembered to come back nicely, too – no charging into Bracha and knocking her over.

 

And then we crossed into the neighbor's orchard. And there it was – a broken irrigation pipe. It must have been broken for some time, because there was a mighty big pool of water, and there was plenty of black mud in it, too. And in I went. By the time Bracha arrived I was, well, a black dog. Even my face, ears, and tail were covered in the stuff. Bracha called me out and clipped my leash back on and didn't seem to like it when I shook myself off, splattering mud all over the place.

The next thing I knew we were marching home, and Bracha was very quiet. I think she was angry but knew that scolding me for getting muddy was really pointless. After all, she lets me get wet in the sea, in the Kinneret, and in the river. How am I supposed to know that there is a difference between that and getting wet in this, er, mud puddle?

So there I was, with my plastic leash tied to the water spigot in the yard and Bracha finally spoke. "Stay!" And three shampoos later and a lot of water and spraying and I was a white dog again. Then Bracha melted and dried me off with the nice soft cloth and hugged me. It's hard for her to stay angry at me for long. But I guess she won't let me near that place in the orchard again. A half a bottle of shampoo is, after all, a bit much to shell out every day. But I am now soft, fragrant, and clean for tomorrow.

I wonder what it's like to be a black dog all the time….