The Great Pyrenees & The Tale of The Nasty No-Good Dog Bath

Jemma's Story

Once upon a time, there was a Great Pyrenees puppy named Jemma. She was magnificent, by any standards, both intelligent and disarmingly beautiful in her outward appeal. Her regal stature coupled with her luxurious white coat rendered her a stunning example of her breed. People loved to pet her; dogs feared her. She was "My Little Pony" meets Kevlar®

She had spent her entire life running free, crossing acre after acre of uncharted land of her home in long, wild strides. The Parker County squirrels scampered up pecans trees as she tore by, screaming at her from the topmost branches. They were so fortunate that she was not a climbing breed; otherwise, things would have gone badly for them.

Her companions in this daily migration from field to far field were two rather sad excuses for dogs: one, a barrel-chested Doberman from Europe, rather high-strung and bossy, and not much to look at, and the other a nondescript Golden Retriever who Jemma had noted as never having "retrieved" anything. However, they made for reasonably good running companions and the Doberman helped keep the squirrel population at bay by running behind Jemma and barking loudly in her wake. 

Jemma's afternoons were always punctuated by leisurely dips in the tank when the mercury skyrocketed. Back and forth she would swim across the wide, green waters, watching the silly Doberman bark from the bank, and passing the Golden as he paddled around in small circles. Doberman's were a rather fearful lot, Jemma found, and not fond of water.

One terrible afternoon, Jemma's Mother appeared on the porch with a bucket and other sundry supplies in hand. She had that smell that she got about her when she was setting out to complete "an important task." Jemma couldn't imagine what that could be. 

The chickens were all cooped up. Jemma knew this because she and the Doberman had been unable to have a "natural" chicken dinner for weeks now. The guineas were likewise imprisoned. The barn was reasonably clean, and the soft "hiss" of the garden sprinkler was audible as the tiny droplets arched over the gasping tomato plants. 

"What could it be?" Jemma wondered as she climbed up the steep bank from the tank, giving herself a vigorous shake and sending debris and tank water flying sideways. 

What could it be? 

Meanwhile, the Doberman was not picking up on any of this.  As Mother called her name, Jemma lumbered happily over to her, eager to find out what she had in store.  In one swift motion, Mother immediately grabbed Jemma's collar, turned the quick-release lock, and pulled the handle out on her Supercollar. 

Jemma was stunned.  She was perplexed.  She was more than a little vexed at being caught and held by a leash made up of coated steel cables. Mother was learning. 

Something was definitely up.

The Amazing Supercollar Dog Collar

It was called "A Bath." 

Four letter word
A coincidence?  

I think not.

"The Bath"

The Bath began with Mother dragging Jemma unceremoniously up the hill and cross tying her on the concrete slab between two fence posts. This boded ill, Jemma thought. The Golden was nowhere to be seen; probably cowering by the front door. The silly Doberman was barking wildly now, dancing in front of Mother as she headed to the water faucet, and laughing at Jemma as she shot back and forth between Mother and the  fence post.  That Doberman was getting on Jemma's last nerve and if Mother hadn't tied Jemma up so well, Jemma would... Wait... Was that...

Water! A cold blasting jet of water hit Jemma broadside, taking her breath away.  She struggled and writhed against the ties, trying valiantly to free herself. Mother spoke to her in soothing tones, telling her calmly, "It's ok, Jemma, it's just water. Just like the water you swim in!"

Buddy Wash Dog Shampoo

Buddy Wash Lavander Dog Shampoo

But it wasn't. Not at all. This water was actually taking all the dirt OFF of Jemma. This wasn't regular water at all. Mother turned the hose for a second to the Doberman who eagerly and stupidly attacked the water as if she would kill the stream that jettisoned from the end of the hose. Even Jemma knew that was impossible. Don't you think she would have already killed it if it could be killed? Some dogs were just born stupid. 

Fate is a fickle piece of roadkill

Mother pulled out a tall jar of what she called "shampoo" squeezing the contents across Jemma's head, down her back, and through her tail. 

The scent caused her to gag. It smelled like that plant Mother grew in the garden, the one she called "lavender." Rubbing it through Jemma's fur, Mother went inch by inch with the brush, massaging the noxious substance into her pores so deeply that no amount of tank water would undo the damage. 

Mother hosed her off for another fifteen minutes, dousing even her head and ears. It was humiliating. She couldn't wait to see the Doberman go next. Mother finally unhooked Jemma from the ties, held her by the collar and tied her again on the front porch--with that steel chain that she had learned to use since Jemma chewed through the last leather tie. 

Furminator
Furminator

From the "porch of shame," everyone watched as Mother combed through Jemma's fur with that tool that took all of the stickers and debris out. It actually felt kind of good, but she wasn't going to admit it. Jemma's leg flew up and involuntarily began to twitch aggressively as Mother found her ticklish spot.  It was soon over, and Jemma collapsed on the front porch. 

She watched the emasculation of the Golden Retriever next as he had his "bath" and joined her later, smelling just as bad as Jemma did. Worse, actually. The heady scent of lavender mixed with the musky odor of Golden Retriever was enough to put Jemma off her next meal.

The Doberman was next. The scales of Justice would soon balance.

It took all of two minutes. The Doberman had no luxurious coat to groom, no long tail to untangle, and no floppy ears to clean. 

The Dogs of War were mocking Jemma. 

She needed to take her aggressions out on a significant piece of rawhide before somebody got hurt. Mother was happy to oblige. She put a large Mexican blanket on the porch for Jemma and The Golden Retriever and gave them both a nice, oily, thick rawhide to occupy them. The Doberman was running free, zigzagging back and forth in front of Mother as she tidied up, prancing and jumping, and already dry. But she would have to sleep sometime.

Jemma chewed her rawhide as she lolled on the porch in front of the door until Mother finally let them all in. Passing throughout the front hall, Jemma caught sight of another dog in the mirror and stopped dead in her tracks. 

The dog was breathtaking

Her snow white coat fell full and thick across broad beautiful shoulders. Her tail rolled in a perfect arc, swept by lengths of Arctic tresses that cascaded down to a perfect point. Her eyes were sky blue, and a little bloodshot. Jemma choked. Her hackles rose. Who was usurper? Mother paused beside Jemma, smiling, and smoothing Jemma's head. As she did, Jemma saw Mother's hand in the mirror smooth the head of the other dog. In less than an instant, Jemma understood (because she was so exceedingly smart). 

She, Jemma, was the beautiful dog in the mirror

Though a "tongue in cheek" approach to marketing and storytelling, the author endorses these products as being the best and most useful items that anyone has ever developed, and particularly wonderful for use with the Great Pyrenees.