I had a bad Wal-Mart experience/ I had a Wal-Mart experience.

Vive la Jerk! Vive la Jerk!

My dog hates the bath. I'm not sure why, since he's never had any traumas, and since when he goes out on boats, he seriously considers jumping into lakes. But today I realized the reason for his incessant scratching was that he had some fleas on him. They were hidden in his fur, and I hadn't been able to see them until I bought a brush for him. So I went out to the petstore, bought a hundred bucks worth of stuff for his increasingly bald, itchy, behind, and came back to bathe him. He was an eighty-five pound porcupine, except each prickler was a super strong limb. We spend forty-five minutes battling each other, until finally he gives up and lets me put him in. This is not without the use of a homemade (not by me) puppy cupcake--a pupcake if you will--and "super-strong"suction cup straps to keep him in place. Then it became a waiting game for him to decide when next to try to escape, breaking free of his nylon and suction shackles. 

This is after the forty-five minutes, before I got him in. It seemed to be a sincere possiblity I was going to have to hire someone or get married or something in order to get fleas off of him.

I finally got his jerk-ass in the bathtub. Please note doggie bathtime bondage straps. This picture was taken during a very smug moment where he was relaxing on my knees. I'd grow to regret not just hurrying up and getting him rinsed, since he then became not only a horrifically strong creature, but a slippery one. And once the dog is covered in flea-killing poison, you can't very well give up.

Eventually my bathroom looked like this.

I looked like this.









And this jerk looked all smug and de-flead like this.

Little did I know that a simple bathttime would turn into a revolutionary war, in which I am the oppressor, and Oakley is fighting for all he believes in. I am scratched to ribbons, and he is now flea free. You're welcome you stupid rescue. #shouldanamedhimdjango