Daily Dose of Cute

Zelda, to our continual amusement, loves to run underneath Dudley, and, frequently, she will stand directly underneath him, with her front end poking out one side, and her back end poking out the other side, so that Dudley looks like he's got a second tail jutting out of his side.




BFFs.
Here is another fact about Zelda: She likes to roll in stinky things.

This makes her not unlike many dogs, although, as I discovered yesterday after she rolled in something black and grody and unfathomably stinky, covering more of herself with the horrible stuff than a wet paper towel (or 20) could handle, it turns out she is scared of the bath. She let me wet her down and soap her up and scrub her in the kitchen without a complaint; indeed, that was a lot of very fun attention! But when I called her into the bathroom and tried to get her into the tub, she was so fearful of the prospect that she peed on the floor.

She then ran into the bedroom, lather and all, and looked at me with those big brown eyes, suddenly full of anxiety, and an expression that seemed to say, "I'm sorry; I think I'm a bad dog but I don't know why; please don't be mad at me."

I wasn't mad at her. I also wasn't sure how to help reassure her in that moment that I wasn't, and that there was nothing to be afraid of. So I asked for help.

"Dudley," I called. He was lying beside her. "Come here, good boy." He got up and came to me in the bathroom. I lavished him with affection and praise.

Zelda followed. I scratched her wee soapy head. "What a good girl!" I told her. Her entire back end, not just her tail but her entire butt, waggled with earnest joy. The bathroom wasn't so scary anymore. Dudley had showed her the way.

I didn't try to put her in the bath. I soaked a towel and rinsed out the soap as best I could that way.

Dudley hung out, patiently letting me rub his head and shoulders with a wet towel, too. Like a good boy.