But when Bob tried to slide him toward the middle of the tub, Joe’s yowl leaped an octave and he twisted his head free of Bob’s grasp. Joe huddled against the front curve of the tub, a strong shiver passing through him from flank to nose.

I turned off the water. “Now what?”

“Beats me,” Bob declared, then cooed at Joe, “What’s your problem, buddy? You’re not gonna drown.” Bob slipped his hand underwater and felt beneath Joe. When he withdrew his hand he gave me a funny look. “You’re not gonna believe this,” he said solemnly, “but Joe’s got his nuts caught in the drain.”

“Impossible,” I assured him. “The drain’s too small for his nuts to fit through.”

Bob shook his head. “Maybe not if they were soapy and slid through one at a time. Better take a look under there. I’ll hold Joe.”

The tub was set about eight inches off the ground on a wooden frame, so I had to brace both legs and lift with a shoulder to rock the tub back far enough to see. Sure enough, Joe’s testicles were dangling from the drain, side by side in his flaccid, mottled scrotum.

Bob took a break from consoling his dog to ask, “See anything?”

I eased the tub back down. “Yeh, I see your dog’s nuts caught in the drain. I trust you appreciate my reluctance to believe it.”

“Well,” Bob said impatiently, “try to poke them back through. Ol’ Joe’s about to go into shock.”

Joe whimpered piteously in confirmation.

“You’re kidding,” I said. “Try to ‘poke them back through.’ Hey bro, he’s your dog and those are his nuts– you do it. Poking Joe’s stuck nuts is not even on my list of 25,000 things I’d do for fun or money.”

“Sweet Jesus,” Bob sighed with pained exasperation, “show class or show ass.”

I’d forgotten that Bob, with only one leg, probably couldn’t leverage the tub, so I gracefully offered, “I’ll lift the tub; you handle his nuts.”

“Ah, come on,” Bob objected, “someone’s got to hold Joe. If he panics, he’ll either tear them off or stretch his sack so bad his balls will be bouncing along behind him the rest of his life.” He scratched Joe’s head, murmuring, “Hang on, old pal, we’ll get you loose.”

I had an idea. “Maybe we could take a sledgehammer to the tub–sort of break it out around him.”

“Right, good thinking,” Bob mocked me. “Take a twelve-pound sledge to a metal bathtub. We’d have him loose by next month easy.” He shook his head. “How would you like your nuts caught in the drain and some utter dimwit pounding away on the tub with a sledgehammer?”

“All right,” I said, “but it’ll cost you.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise us?” Bob asked his dog. Then to me, “What?”