Last night we bathed our big dog.

The dogs have been having a rough time lately anyway, since we have been descended upon by bikers and they roar up and down the street at all hours even though we live on a dead-end road and there is nowhere for them to go. The dogs spend a lot of time barking and whining at the excitement that’s going on outside, from which they are excluded.

And then, just when she had gotten a wonderfully ripe smell, just the way she likes it, poor Fiona gets hauled off and bathed.

She stands like a martyr at a stake, patiently waiting.

First, she runs off and hides and has to be dragged out from under the furniture. And she pulls back and has to be dragged into the bathroom and pushed into the tub.

But once she’s there, she stands in patient resignation, refusing to make eye contact with the evil people who are slathering her with Pomegranate Passion shampoo and cooing to her. It is clear that she is leaving it up to God to take vengeance on us.

She pushes her nose into the shower curtain, trying to shut out the world as we rinse her and dry her with fluffy towels and tell her how beautiful and fresh and sweet she is.

She won’t trust us again for days.