Pete has a pity party.

I got a new lens the other day, and since the people in my house don't like to pose for pictures, Pete is my only victim.

Man-squared gave him a bath yesterday and I caught him pouting behind my desk chair after the ordeal (Pete, not Man-squared), curled up in the only square of sunshine in the house.

Look at that pouty face. Don't you feel sorry for him?

Me neither.

I remember when I had an 11-pound Yorkie and giving him a bath was a 5-minute process of lifting him in, soaping him up, rinsing, and drying. Not so with Pete. Man-squared calls him toward the bathroom. Pete runs and hides. Man-squared tries luring him out with food. Pete resists. Man-squared grabs him by the collar and pulls him out of his crate, then picks up all 70 pounds of him and deposits him in the tub, holding him there with one hand while adjusting the water temperature with the other. By this time Pete is trembling and the dog hair is flying, and it's not like we use cold water out of the hose. Pete gets a nice warm shower, a massage, and a fluffy towel.

By the time it's over, Pete is traumatized and I'm remembering why I like little dogs. But all's well that ends well, and Pete smells much better today.

Be thankful ~