Mark's Work: "Eau de Country"

“Do you think our Ellie Mae may be just a tad high-strung?” I asked GlutenFreeMama of an afternoon, not too long ago.

The sound that emerged from her mouth, stopped short of being a snort; it was more of a guffaw. “I’d say that’s putting it mildly,” she responded.

I glanced over at her, genuinely surprised. “Really? You know, when I think of high-strung, it’s generally a euphemism for highly destructive. High-strung is the dog who chews up the phone charger; it is the dog who rips the car upholstery to shreds, while you’re in Geiger’s; it's the dog who knocks the plants off the window sill, trying to see if you are home yet.”

I continued, “The high strung dog barks a lot when you are not in the immediate vicinity; finally, inevitably, the high strung dog wears out its welcome. Ellie Mae is none of these. Yes, she had one incident, a few weeks after she got here, but that was a year-and-a-half ago. And the only time she barks is when the front door opens.”

GlutenFreeMama managed to get a word in. “Still, the separation anxiety, the edginess when Little Man is here, the way she gets wound up when Margie or Emma come around you, I’d say our girl is high-strung,” GFMama concluded.

“We can label her high-strung but what’s in a label? Here are a few crayons that color my thinking. What about the times when she never moves, from seven in the evening until seven in the morning, snoozing away on the sofa. To me high strung means an inability to check anxiety issues at the door.”

I went on, “She’s great with puppies, and she has never done anything around Little Man except give him doggie kisses and wag her tail hard enough to power the electrical needs of the household for 24 hours.” I paused for oxygen.

“I have never been around a dog as affectionate and appreciative as Ellie Mae, and sure, I lavish attention on her. She is a country dog, though, and is aware of every squirrel, raven, rabbit, blue jay, farm cat, SKUNK, bobcat, coyote, possum, fox, chipmunk, and deer that comes within her range. Don’t forget she is a Covelo girl.”

I bring this conversation up because a few hours ago, not too long after I got up this morning, Ellie Mae got skunked-again. I have chronicled a couple of these incidents in the past, finding it easy to infuse humor into the equation. I think of it as humorous more than anything else, because the scent of skunk is nothing more than “eau de country.”

The odor can’t be compared to the putrid stench that clings to her, after she has been rolling in something dead. In fact the skunk essence is similar to some potent forms of cannabis, and I am never going to find cannabis offensive.

I let her out this morning in the most routine of manners, and she returned five minutes later with no balderdash. I was therefore unprepared for the olfactory disaster, hidden in that disarmingly sweet face peering so trustingly at me through a window pane.

The time was 1:47AM. GlutenFreeMama was asleep in the other room, with no walls or doors to block either scent or noise. My sole option for administering a bath is the shower unit inside my bathroom, one that I have employed in the past for this same purpose. Our bathtub is temporarily on assignment and unavailable for use.

There was no other way to proceed; Ellie Mae remained on the front deck, on her tethered leash, while I got the arena prepared. This included filling two five-gallon tupperware containers with mildly hot water which would cool a bit before being used.

I put a clean rug in the shower on the floor, and a towel on the floor right outside the shower. I had the doggie shampoo and I had a small container with her favorite dog treats in it, handy to grab. Having done this number before, I knew what the pitfalls were, the biggest one being the sound of running water, such as comes out of a hose. I found out the hard way but I know it now. That’s why I pre-filled the tuppies.

When I finally brought Ellie into the bathroom, she was acutely aware of what was about to befall her. Whether it was clear why, remains unknown. With the taste of one dog treat still with her, I took the time to sit her down outside the shower while I explained in a low, calm voice, exactly what was coming down, and why. I could have been reciting Casey at the Bat, for all she understood, but she stopped shivering during my talk and when she did, I went to work. This bath was unlike any other because Ellie Mae was completely calm as I lathered up every inch of her body.

There was none of this splash a little soap here and there and hope for the best. No, every square inch of her hound dog body was lathered, massaged, and coerced into subjecting to the magic fingers and the suddenly user-friendly water.

It had been chilly outside, at around 45 degrees and Ellie had been forced to stay out there while I prepped the venue. Now, with still quite warm water being gently poured over all of her, she seemed to give up any semblance of resistance. From the time I went to bring her in, until the time she was on her bed in front of the hot wood stove, 45 minutes elapsed.

I think the longest I was ever able to sustain a bathing experience, was nine minutes.

Ellie Mae is resting comfortably now, no worse for the experience. The last thing I want to say about Ellie and high strung, is that I am high strung too. I struggle to take in information through my ears; it’s one of the symptoms of being bipolar.

That being said, I have been listening to baseball for sixty or so years. The way I explain this anomaly is that I absorb baseball, just as I firmly believe that Ellie Mae absorbed what I explained to her, before I began her bath. I think it calmed her and led to a thorough and mellow encounter with water, and I’m not sure a high-strung dog could have done that.

Ellie Mae is a country dog; they’re not the same as city dogs. Country dogs need a couple of acres to sprint around in, and they need patience when it comes to the inevitable results of being just that-a country dog. When I saw recently that “Bubba” (not his real name) was returned to the Inland Mendocino County Humane Shelter, I was saddened.

The explanation was simply that it was not a good match for “Bubba,” a country dog trying to fit into the city. And that’s what I mean: Ellie Mae is a country dog, living in the country and doing things that country dogs do.

That’s not high strung-that’s high living.