Dealing with a muddy dog

By Ward Degler/Times Sentinel columnist

It’s three o’clock in the afternoon and my dog is whining at the door. He has been outside all morning and wants to come in. An hour ago I glanced out the window and saw that his feet were dripping with mud. It’s been raining for three days, the snow has melted and my back yard is a lake.

I know that soon I will have to let him in, and I psych myself up for it. A certain agility is required on my part for this task. That has to do with the nature of my dog.

Brutie is a high-octane sort. He runs a lot and with great ease. He is extremely fast, sort of like a race horse on uppers. Even when he walks, he looks like a race horse. His flesh ripples with each stride.

He also loves to play. I don’t know about other dogs, but to Brutie play means running at breakneck speed from one end of the house to the other. When I let him in after an extended stay outside, it’s playtime. Which brings me to the agility thing.

When he sees me come to the door to let him in, his ears prick up, he bounces up and down on his front feet, and his tail whips back and forth like a metronome set on Presto.” He digs in his hind feet, ready to launch.

My first job is to size up his condition. If his feet are merely wet, I only need a towel. Minor mud requires the addition of a damp cloth. Today Brutie is in full-dress major mud. It drips from the hair on his upper legs. It oozes in festoons from his underbelly. For this I need a dishpan filled with water and two large towels.

Opening the door is a study in engineering. It has to provide just enough space for me to reach out and grab his collar. Wider than that and he charges through like an enraged rhinoceros and before I can recover from the shock he will have roared across the dining room, through the kitchen and back and forth across the family room. Playtime! The trail of mud he leaves behind rivals the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina.

Most of the time I’m lucky. I grasp the dog by the collar and inch him through the door. While holding on tightly with one hand, I move the wash basin closer so it’s just beneath his chest. Then I lift the closest forefoot and immerse it in the water, all the while talking to the dog in a soothing manner. “Good dog. Goooood dog.”

Although dripping with mud doesn’t bother him, he sometimes spooks when I put his foot in clean water. Soothing talk usually helps. Trust me, when a 95-pound dog spooks, there is probably no force on earth that can contain him.

The difference between bolting through the door in the first place and spooking with his foot in the water is that in addition to leaving a trail of mud the dimensions of a flash flood, he also upsets the wash basin, creating a deluge in the dining room.

After swishing each foot in the water, I dry it with the towel, move the basin, release his clean foot and gently grasp the next dirty one. Washing the fourth foot is pretty much a joke since the first three have turned the water dark brown and to the consistency of wet cement.

When the job is done, I carefully move the basin away and slowly release his collar. It is my hope that he will then amble nonchalantly toward his food dish. Lamentably, I’ve yet to see that happen.

What does happen is that he remembers his initial objective was playtime. He launches into a full gallop through the house, leaving a slippery muddy water trail in his wake. Then he ambles nonchalantly to his food dish.

On muddy days, I try to limit the number of times I go through this drill. Honestly, the dog doesn’t need to go out every hour on the hour. Any dog that can’t hold his water for at least half a day isn’t worth his kibbles and bits, I say.

The problem with Brutie is that he has a short attention span. He gets bored.

I’ve dried his feet and cleaned up the mess. He eats, drinks some water and flops on the floor next to where I sit at the computer.

For a few minutes he sleeps peacefully. All is tranquil. Sooner or later, though, I’m going to get up from my chair. The dog will then wake up and want to go out. I’ve made up my mind; it isn’t going to happen. I stride purposefully to the kitchen for a fresh cup of coffee. The dog follows me. I return to the computer and resume my work. The dog sits and stares at me. I tell myself he’s not going out. Ignore him!

It’s a contest, and I always lose. I quietly refill the basin and seek out fresh towels.

Ward Degler is a Zionsville writer and artist. E-mail him at wdegler@comcast.net.

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