The Great Benny Betrayal

Or, How to Lose a Dog’s Respect in One Bath

This morning our “dust mop dog” Benny smelled horrid — like he’d rolled in something that had died a few days ago and had since developed character.

Years ago a friend’s husband coined “dust mop dog” for small, long‑haired dogs. “They look exactly like those floor mops,” he said, “only without the handle.” I’ve called them that ever since. Benny fits: a bundle of black, brown, and gray wiry fur that could double as a household mop if you attached the right pole.

He sort of rescued himself. One day, while we were walking Breeze through town, this scruffy little dog started following us. No matter how many turns we took, he wouldn’t go home. Worried he’d get hit by a car, we finally put him in our truck and spent 45 minutes driving around, asking anyone if they recognized him. We posted on Facebook and neighborhood boards. A vet found no microchip. So Benny came home to stay.

He’s terrier and every other small dog that’s ever set paw on American soil. He adores me — which would be flattering if I weren’t already Breeze’s chosen human. She walks with Rick most mornings and with me on weekends and holidays. Breeze tolerates Benny’s devotion with only the occasional low growl, usually when he gets too ambitious with his cuddles.

But today Breeze had me all to herself. There was no need for possessiveness, no vying for position. Benny was busy pouting.

You see, I had the unmitigated gall to give him a bath.

The way he carried on, you’d have thought I’d signed him up for exile to Siberia. There was splashing, glaring, soulful sighing, and that look dogs give when they’re filing your betrayal away for later.

After the bath he refused to acknowledge me for eight hours. Even lunchtime treats barely earned him a flick of an eye. Taking a treat from my hand? Absolutely not. That would imply forgiveness, and we were nowhere near that level of diplomacy.

Sorry, Benny, but I simply do not enjoy the aroma of carrion.