That Internship With The Cows Came in Pretty Handy

I once spent a week as a writing intern for the Houston Livestock Show & Rodeo. What does that mean? That I was excused from classes for five days (letter from the Dean, thank you very much) sitting in various small arenas observing heifer shows. No, I’m not kidding. Laugh it up, people.

I often asked myself what the heck I had gotten into: cows, manure, FFA kids, belt buckles, cattle prods, purple and green colored hay. I wrote articles on these shows at the end of each day, after hours of observing teenagers poke and prod their prized cow through the arena. They shoved their hind parts, they lifted their legs and poked underneath them, they talked sternly into the ears of their animal and it actually worked.

I knew that the writing was a good experience for me, I love love love the Rodeo. But really, what was the point of all the cattle? Sitting and watching all that maneuvering of the animals throughout the arena?

I realized yesterday that I was meant to do the heifer internship so that I would be equipped with the skills needed to bathe our family dogs.

I had to sweet talk and practically sit on my brother’s “masculine” dog named after a character in the “masculine” movie Lonesome Dove so that he would not run from the “vicious” water hose. Very masculine. Gus sprinted away from me and I had to chase him in circles after I had soaped him up . He was very against the “rinse” cycle of his bath, apparently. To his credit, he was very obedient as I toweled him off, all eighty-seven pounds of him, and sent him inside to roll all over our wood floors.

Then came the precious angel we call Tres. Eighty pound golden retriever not quite a year old, smelling of fish and other rotten things. In desperate need of a bath. (I bought Suave Green Apple family size just for him. That anti-flea shampoo just is not strong enough to knock back his scent.)

Anyways, he ran outside happily with me, we threw the ball and played soccer a little bit, then I got out the water hose and … BAM. He bolted to the backdoor as if I had just got out a shot gun and placed a target on his back. I called him over in a gentle voice, stern voice, mean voice, charming voice. None of it worked. I went and grabbed him by the collar and pulled. He did not budge.

I, similar to a young FFA-er showing cattle, lifted his front paws and tried to physically make him walk. I picked him up. But I was not strong enough to pick him up and walk at the same time, so I put him down. I begged nicely for him to follow me to the hose. I threatened to remove his back legs if he didn’t follow me to the hose. I squirted him from a distant with the hose. Mean, yes, but I was on my last nerve. This dog will swim for days in lakes and rivers. What is wrong with a little water hose?

Finally, I thought back to those cattle arena days. The sweet and innocent teenage girls could pull their eight hundred pound calves around the show area. I could pull this dog! So I grabbed behind his hears, sat back into a backwards lunge position, and used all my strength to slowly coax/drag him over to the hose, where I promptly threw one leg over his back so he couldn’t budge.

Then I sang to him and assured him he would be the handsomest dog in the neighborhood when we were done with the suddsing. He didn’t seem to mind too badly, and he already smelled much better. Then I rinsed. Then he bolted. For the mud puddle that had formed while the hose ran as I hauled him across the yard as if he were my prized FFA exhibit. He got all four of his giant bear paws covered in mud, so we rinsed again.

Successfully I prodded Tres to the backdoor and congratulated myself on several things. One, not having the neighbors call the cops because they could hear me yelling “you are being ridiculous! Stop that. Get over here!!” repeatedly at what they may have thought was a human and not two dogs. And… I had won. The cow, oops- golden retriever, had not bested me!

I certainly have new respect for those FFA kids. Moving a beast-dog isn’t easy; I’m sure a full grown cow is more difficult. But then again, if they dry their cow off with towels after a bath, I’m pretty sure they don’t have to worry about the cow chewing, shredding, or growling at the towel.
I guess it was worth it. When Gus and Tres were licking my face and pawing my arms and feet this morning, attempting to wake me from my slumber at 7:00 a.m., they didn’t smell like fish or old milk or worse. They smelled faintly of apples, their hair glistened in the light, and they were, as I promised, the best looking dogs on the block.