I’m taking the view here that, “maybe somewhere down the road aways, you’ll think of me and wonder where I am these days …”
In terms of upheaval, I now have a better understanding of how people must have felt during the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution. And if Obelix thought the Romans were crazy, his mind would have boggled at the Safricans.
There was a time (ah, fooled you; you thought I was going to quote Mr Cohen!) when humans were self-cleaning. They’d work hard enough for their own sweat to rinse them while they were working. But then marriage became popular, and a mother-in-law somewhere invented soap for the mouths of those who did not speak ill enough of the sons- or daughters-in-law. And the bad habit spread throughout mankind.
At some stage, Right Guard, Prep and OId Spice were all a man needed. But that was long ago; definitely before the sons of Charles Truscott Wilbury, Sr, deemed it safe to intimate that it was all right riding around in the breeze, if you lived the life you please. So, mankind had to invent other olfactory remedies.
I was at peace with the world, minding my own Vetshop-produced biscuits, when the car stopped and a massive bowl was hauled out of it. I was trying to figure out whether it would be better to use it for dry food or for bones when the garden hose was put inside it. Not ideal, but I’m not averse to taking a drink now and again, and again, so I could still live with it. I did not understand why a bucket, which had clearly been filled from the hot water tap, also came into play. In mitigation, I can only offer the naivety of the truly innocent.
Because I was picked up bodily and dumped heartlessly into what I was to learn was not a container for biscuits, chunks or bones, but “my bath”. And when I use the b-word, don’t think Victorian, porcelain, curved legs, exotic maidens or the even more exotic fragrance of roast chicken; think common black plastic on the front lawn, in plain sight of all passers-by and old ladies with binoculars hiding behind lace curtains. Think F10 medicated shampoo … OK, so there was an issue of mange, but let’s not change the topic.
Afterwards, adding injustice to insult and injury, I had my entire, and I mean, e-n-t-i-r-e, body rubbed down with ancient Dutch yuck that had been designed to make the devil’s heart shrivel up. Again, let’s not change the focus to mange here. Because, and I can provide visual proof, my sensitive complexion had to endure other witches’ brews as well.
But … or perhaps I should say “butt”… the half-brothers Wilbury (Otis, specifically, if I remember correctly) cautioned that every day is judgement day. And, in my judgement, the very best place to rub an itchy, mangy, lotion-covered butt is a wall that had just been painted.