My dogs hate the groomers…

So… The Great Bath Battle: How Dry Shampoo Saved My Stinkiest Dog

Let me introduce you to a household conundrum: my dog, Rabble. A lovable but notoriously stubborn Golden Retriever, Rabble has an aversion to baths like a cat to water. It’s not that he’s unhygienic—no, no, he simply believes that he is a majestic creature too noble for such a « peasant » pastime as bathing. His disdain for water has turned our home into a battleground every few weeks, and I’ve often wondered if I should’ve just raised a goat instead.

The Prelude to a Bath

Now, bathing Rabble requires careful planning, stealth, and a good dose of bravery. It begins with a game of hide-and-seek. As soon as I even think about mentioning the word “bath,” Rabble pulls off the greatest disappearing act since Houdini. You’d think he was a magician’s assistant as he ducks behind the couch, wedged between the coffee table and the wall, or even attempts to disguise himself as a decorative throw pillow.

Once I’ve cleared the area and found what I assume is a dog-shaped mass of fur meticulously camouflaged against the furniture, it’s game time. I coax him out with a treat (because, let’s be honest, “Come here, Rabble!” has all the allure of a dentist appointment). As I lead him toward the bathroom, he suddenly becomes a 65-pound sack of potatoes. Any hopes of moving him are futile—he’s about as cooperative as a toddler during nap time.

The Bathing Conflict

Once we get to the bathroom, it’s time for the real struggle to begin. As I turn on the water, Rufus’s eyes go wide, and he gives me a look that says, “You’re not really going to do this, are you?” He suddenly becomes a professional escape artist, slipping out of my grip and performing a leap that would qualify for the Olympic hurdles. He flops around with a charisma only a wet dog can possess, shaking fur everywhere while I’m left with a mix of frustration and utter amusement.

The moment I manage to get him into the tub, you’d think I was trying to put a greased pig into an inflatable kiddie pool. He wriggles and squawks. I’m half-waiting for him to start howling operatic arias while I’m pouring shampoo over his head. There’s water everywhere besides the dog, and I swear the neighbors must think we’re filming a horror movie called “Rabble vs. The Bath.”

The Stench That Launched a Thousand Ships

After approximately three hours of wrestling that feels more like a WWE match, I manage to rinse off the suds. You’d think that would be the end of our trials, but oh, no. The smell—that offensive, distinct, “what-did-you-roll-in-this-time?” smell—returns quicker than a boomerang. Rabble, being the outdoorsy type, has an unfortunate tendency to treat every mud puddle as his personal spa.

“There must be a better way,” I murmured to myself as I towel him off, but knew that he was still going to smell like a questionable swamp for at least a week. As I began to accept my fate of enduring the odor until our next bath—and crying into my pillow every night—my friend made a suggestion that would change our lives.

Enter Dry Shampoo: The Pet Hero We Never Knew We Needed

“Why not try dry shampoo?” she said, a twinkle in her eye that suggested she knew something I didn’t. Dry shampoo? For dogs? My immediate thoughts were of high-fashion models posing awkwardly in ads for human dry shampoo, but then again, desperate times call for desperate measures.

Armed with a bottle of organic dry shampoo—something that smelled like it came straight from a spa retreat for unicorns—I approached Rabble again.

“Listen, buddy,” I said as I squinted at him through a suspicious cloud of his last bath. “We’re going to try something new.” His ears perked up, tilting his head in that adorable “I’m trying to understand English” manner. He had no idea what was coming.

As soon as I unscrewed the cap of the dry shampoo, Rabble’s nose perked up, and he sniffed the air like a bloodhound on a mission. I sprinkled some onto his coat and rubbed it in as though I was auditioning for a cooking show—the final touch being a sprinkle of fairy dust (okay, it was just a touch of coconut oil).

To my amazement, Rabble didn’t try to escape. Instead, he was quite curious, sniffing at the dry shampoo like I was offering him caviar. The entire time I was rubbing it in, I half-expected him to start requesting a massage post-treatment.

The Transformation

And just like that, a sweet smelling, sweet tempered, actually just a plain sweet routine was born that ended with me stress free, Rabble definitely stress free AND above all lacking the distinctive swampy fug.