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.