Wash The Dog by Charlee Marshall

Wash The Dog

On Sunday when the footy’s on I settle in my chair
With an esky on the cabinet to counteract the glare
A cushion put strategically to ease my aching back
And a pizza on the bookshelf just in case I need a snack.
I rip a tinny open, take my first long sip of grog...
Then my wife says “Don’t forget, dear, it’s your turn to wash the dog!”

If you know a greater turnoff, any sadder blight on life
I pray you’ll keep it secret, don’t ever tell my wife!
I squirm, I twist, pretend I’m deaf, sink lower in the chair
But I hear the voice of conscience drowning out ‘Australia Fair’
It strangles my ambition for a quick dash to the pub
So at last, with great reluctance, I go out and find the tub.

Our dog is much more cross than bred, it always seems to me
Many a carnal canine paused beside his family tree
And his favourite form of exercise is: up the garden path,
Round the shed and through the hedgerow, when I call him for a bath
“Come back here, you stupid animal!” I beg, I plead, I cry
and the caller from the lounge room hollers out “A try! a try!”

“He mustn’t have cold water...” so I heat it like a sauna
Then I trap him with a tackle through the rose bush by the corner
Trailing blood and petals, and still smarting from the thorn
While he renders his objections digging furrows in the lawn
I drag him and I tie him to the drainpipe with a rope
Then I seek first aid (and sustenance) - that’s when he eats the soap.

The fullback takes a kick at goal - two points may turn the match
My beer’s gone flat... there’s iodine in every tingling scratch
With leaden heart, unwilling hands, and thunder on my brow
I pull my rubber boots on, ‘cos I know what happens now
It’s like some children’s peep-show or some low-cost comedy
I wash the dog and then the bastard does the same to me!

Yes swearing is a churlish thing with women-folk around
But I swear some day I’ll take a certain creature to the pound
My eyes are full of froth, he licks my face, he thinks that’s cute
Then he vomits half-a-cake of mangled soap into my boot...
And the wife goes “Oh, the darling, do you think he might be sick?”
So I say “I’ll take his temperature... just pass me that stick!”

Well, the footy match is over, my pizza’s on the floor
I’ll have to watch the news tonight before I know the score
The dog is washed and rinsed and dried and given a shampoo
It’s too late for the session, but then... what’s a man to do?
I sadly tip the water out, drain every final sud
Then the rotten bloody mongrel comes and rolls in all the mud!

-Charlee Marshall -

Wash The Dog

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