Dutch and Me

Dutch has been swimming in the irrigation ditch multiple times each day, and since he never has a chance to dry out, he smells like a creature of the deep, if a creature of the deep were to reek of dirty socks. I’m convinced that stinking is inseparable from his joy; it would be criminal to keep him out of the water. I won’t resort to unkind deprivations just to save respectability, so here and there I have to spray the couch with some sort of organic molecular concoction that binds to malodorous odors. The bed too, of course, and the carpet where his favorite lounging areas are. I’d rather that he smell like lilacs, but not so much as I’d rather he be fumigated or totally yoked to the leash like the over-civilized canines common here in the Burbs of Paradise.

The truth is that neither of us belong here. We both prefer wilder settings, though he is far more malleable than I, and he does well regardless of our circumstances. When we drove to Montana from Massachusetts, I had to resort …