I Put The Terror In Terrier

Hi. I'm Oliver. Grrr.


That's me being a real bad-ass in that video. Because I'm a bad-ass dog. I may not be all that big, but I'm a bad-ass. Especially after my mom gives me a bath. I'm pretty good while my mom is suds-ing me up, but once the towel comes out it's all over. I get a serious case of the "zoomies" and terrorize anything that gets in my way. Like the couch I'm terrorizing in that video I posted. Grrr.


I don't really have anything against the couch. It's a nice couch. And a comfy place for me and my doggie pillow to sleep. But for some reason, baths really rev me up. I hate baths. Baths are stupid. They make your hair all wet and show off how skinny you really are. I'm just a shell of my svelte, buff self after a bath, and that's just embarrassing. I also stink after a bath. That girly smelling shampoo my mom uses makes me smell like grass and flowers. Screw that. I want to smell like ass. As in bad-ass, but with a heavy accent on the ass. Dogs like the smell of ass. Ass smells good. Ass, not grass. 


And therein lies the problem. 


Every time I get a bath I have to roll in something that counteracts my flower-smelling fur. It's a battle with no good outcome (like the war in Iraq) since my mom and I completely disagree on acceptable smells. (Okay, not exactly like the war in Iraq, but you get what I'm saying. And I used a metaphor. I'm a dog and I used a metaphor. Yay me!) Back to my story about my mom and I completely disagreeing on smells. I roll in dead carcass, I get a bath. I re-roll in dead carcass, I get a bath. Lucky for me, my mom can't find the dead carcass in the yard. And I'm not telling her where it is. Although she is watching me more when she lets me out so I need to be careful. But I'm not giving up. And considering I just got another scrub-down, neither is she.


Three baths in three days. And the couch is taking the brunt of my frustration. Still, I wouldn't blame me if I was that couch. I'd take it up with the woman in charge and tell her to stop giving me so many baths. I'd also tell her the rotten fishy smell is all relative. And that the only one who opposes that smell is her. Then again, it is just a couch. It doesn't know how to take sides (which is a real drag since I could use a little help making my argument). My mom and I will just have to battle it out.


I suppose I could be a little more patient and know that the clean smell will just get taken over by my natural manly dog smell. I mean, my dog smell, well, it's no pungent ass smell (the perfect cologne for dogs), but it's still a pretty decent smell. 


Hmmm. What do my instincts tell me? 


My instincts tell me roll in the ass-smelling carcass. Of course they do. And there's probably a good reason. I don't know what that reason is, but if I'm inclined to do it, there must be some sort of historical significance--maybe it was my means of survival. If only I could check out some books at the library and do a little research. But they don't let dogs in the library. Unless I got one of those little blue smocks and pretended I was some sort of guide dog for the disabled. Now that would be fun. And if someone asked me to leave because of my smell, well, I'd have all the rational arguments in the world right at my disposal. 


Or I could just do a little research online. 


Yeah. That might be a better idea. Me just doing a google-search on doggie behavior. I mean, who has time to find a disabled person and convince them to pretend I'm their guide dog. That's a lot of time and effort for a little (yet super tough) guy like me. Besides, after all those doggie freak-outs and doggie temper tantrums I need a nap. Dog zoomies can be exhausting. But I am destined to win. I'm a dog. I sleep. I eat. I poo. And that's pretty much it in terms of responsibility. Except for my bad-ass-ness. That's a big responsibility too. Either way, I have all the time in the world to plan my stink roll and be a bad-ass to the couch.


Grrr.


The end.


Ollie