I love the way my dog smells. I want to make sure that is understood from the very beginning. I particularly love the way her feet smell like Fritos when we come back from a walk. When I first shared this with my husband he just shook his head and sighed. Then he helped himself to a big bowl of Fritos.
So, there you have it. I love the way she smells. The perfume was not my idea in the first place.
We were at the annual dog parade held to raise money for the humane society. And believe me, if I sound like an over-the-edge-dog-nut you should have seen some of the other people there. There were dogs dressed up in costumes so flamboyant they would make Cher look Amish. Seriously. There was one lady there whose six-pack of poodles was dyed in pastel Easter egg colors. They rode in a little cart, a half dozen frothy puffs of cotton candy with doggy breath. I had never seen anything like it.
I was standing with my mouth agape at the sight of an Afghan hound sporting a Sanjaya-style mohawk when two women armed with spray bottles in glittery holsters on their hips approached me. Their shirts were emblazoned with the phrase Bath Junkies.
“Hi. Can we spray your dog?” They un-holstered their weapons and aimed the misters in Angel’s direction.
“Um, what is that?” Given our outrageous surroundings, I thought I should ask.
“It’s special aromatherapy fragrance for dogs, to make her smell nice.”
Like I said, I already love the way my dog smells. But, what’s the harm in a little primping? “Sure.”
They went to town, spraying every inch of Angel with Vanilla Lace and Wedding Cake. I’m not sure why anyone would want their dog to smell like wedding cake, but Angel seemed to enjoy it. She stood completely still while the junkies unloaded their arsenal on her tiny, 15-pound frame. By the time they were finished, she had a foggy cloud around her like Pigpen on the Peanuts cartoon.
“Be sure and check back at our booth after the parade. We’re giving away a $75 gift pack of our products.” They handed me a hot pink raffle ticket. I wondered if I had ever spent that much money on perfume for myself, much less my dog.
I’m still not sure what possessed me to actually stop at the Bath Junkies booth after the parade because I never win anything. Imagine my surprise when the junkies giddily told me I had won the raffle and began loading me down with bottle after bottle of heavenly concoctions. When I got home I lined them all up on the bathroom counter and refused to contemplate the fact that my dog now owned more cosmetics than I did.
Angel curled up lovingly at my feet as I stood in the kitchen preparing dinner that evening. Every once in a while I got a whiff of her fancy cologne.
“Honey, dinner’s almost ready!” I called out to tell my husband to get ready for supper, but there was no answer. So, I walked through the house searching, Angel happily trailing on my heels.
I stopped short at the entrance to the master bathroom. There was my husband bent over, his boxer-clad booty stuck up in the air, spraying his backside like crazy with my new Bath Junkies dog perfume.
“What in the world are you doing?”
He stood up and looked slightly embarrassed, but not as humiliated as one might think considering I had just caught him dousing his derrière with pet products.
“Oh, hi sweetheart. Where did you get this stuff? It smells like cake.”
“I won it in a raffle at the dog parade.”
“Why would they have personal hygiene spray at the dog parade?”
“What are you talking about? This is not for people – it’s for dogs!” I grabbed the fancy bottle out of his hand and pointed to the words Mutt Mist with a flourish, Vanna White-style.
I watched the crimson blush crawl up his face as I realized his mistake.
“You’re not wearing your glasses.”
“Um, no. I didn’t see the M. I thought it said Butt Mist.”
Angel let out a little yip and when I finished laughing I had to wipe away tears with my dishrag. “Well, it still smells good.”
“Yep,” he sheepishly admitted, “'A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.'”
I always swoon when he quotes Shakespeare.
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