once in the shower stall, the jig was up. he cowered in corner. you would think he was locked in a CIA black site—unreachable by ACLU. Red Cross. Oh, the torture. a shower soak. then suds. a scrub. a rinse. the pained looked. unbearable.
when done, the towels came out. that tail that was firmly between his legs sprung up and started wagging. By the 5th towel, and a few vigorous shakes, he was happy again.
In the backyard, he rolled around. ran around. and then looked at me with an expression that said, “Isn't life grand."