The Dog Who Wouldn't Be Read Online Free Page A

except when we stripped off our clothing and went to soak in the bathtub. For Mutt there was no such relief. His long coat caught and trapped the dust until the hair became matted and discolored, assuming a jaundiced saffron hue, but he would not, in those early days, voluntarily turn to water to escape his misery.
    He was a true son of the drought. I suppose that he had seen so little water in his first months of life that he had a right to be suspicious of it. At any rate he shied away from water in any quantity, as a cayoose shies from a rattlesnake. When we decidedto force a bath upon him, he not only became argumentative and deaf, but if he could escape us, he would crawl under the garage floor, where he would remain without food or drink until we gave in and solemnly assured him that the bath was off.
    Not the least difficult part of the bath was the devising of a plan whereby Mutt might be lured, all unsuspecting, into the basement where the laundry tubs stood waiting. This problem required a different solution each time, for Mutt had a long memory, and his bath suspicions were easily aroused. On one occasion we released a live gopher in the cellar and then, encountering it “unexpectedly,” called upon Mutt to slay it. This worked once.
    The bath itself was a severe ordeal to all who were involved. During the earlier attempts we wore raincoats, sou’westers, and rubber boots, but we found these inadequate. Later we wore only simple breech-clouts. Mutt never gave up, and he would sometimes go to incredible lengths to cheat the tub. Once he snatched a piece of naphtha soap out of my hand and swallowed it, whether accidentally or not I do not know. He began frothing almost immediately, and we curtailed the bath and called the veterinary.
    The veterinary was a middle-aged and unimaginative man whose practice was largely limited tohealing boils on horses and hard udders on cows. He refused to believe that Mutt had voluntarily swallowed soap, and he left in something of a huff. Mutt took advantage of the hullabaloo to vanish. He returned twenty-four hours later looking pale and emaciated – having proved the emetic efficacy of naphtha soap beyond all question.
    The decision to bathe Mutt was never lightly made, and we tended to postpone it as long as possible. He was long overdue for a cleansing when, in late July, I went away to spend a few days at a friend’s cottage on Lake Manitou.
    I enjoyed myself at Manitou, which is one of the saltiest of the west’s salt sloughs. My friend and I spent most of our days trying to swim, despite the fact that the saline content of the water was so high that it was impossible to sink deep enough to reach a point of balance. We slithered about on the surface, acquiring painful sunburns and bad cases of salt-water itch.
    I was in a carefree and happy mood when, on Monday morning, I arrived back in Saskatoon. I came up the front walk of our house whistling for Mutt and bearing a present for him – a dead gopher that we had picked up on the road home. He did not respond to my whistle. A little uneasilyI pushed through the front door and found Mother sitting on the chesterfield, looking deeply distressed. She stood up when she saw me and clutched me to her bosom.
    â€œOh, darling,” she cried, “your poor,
poor
dog! Oh, your
poor
, poor dog!”
    A lethal apprehension overwhelmed me. I stiffened in her arms. “What’s the matter with him?” I demanded.
    Mother released me and looked into my eyes. “Be brave, darling,” she said. “You’d better see him for yourself. He’s under the garage.”
    I was already on my way.
    Mutt’s grotto under the garage was his private sanctuary, and it could be reached only through a narrow burrow. I got down on my hands and knees and peered into the gloom. As my eyes became accustomed to the darkness, I could discern a vague but Muttlike shape. He was curled up in the farthest