So I had the leash on Joe before Bob, whose right leg had been amputated near the hip years earlier, could get up on his crutches. With Bob herding from behind, I led Joe around back of the cabin, where we’d set up an old bathtub for starlit soaks. We hadn’t used the bathtub lately, so I scooped out the accumulated litter of madrone leaves and pine needles before I lifted in Joe. As I slipped off his collar, Joe grunted and sat down, settling into what we called the ODZ, or Old Dog Zone, where Joe seemed to be watching methane sunsets on Jupiter, or flights of birds invisible to human eyes. I turned on the water, hot and cold mixing in a single hose, while Bob opened the shampoo.

I asked him, “Want me to put in the plug?”

“Jesus, no,” Bob said. “Rising water freaks Joe out bad. In fact, better make sure that drain ain’t clogged.”

“How could it be?” I reminded him. “Remember when you couldn’t find the rubber plug one night and hammered in that chunk of redwood for a stopper? Knocked out all those little cross-pieces?”

“Aw,” Bob dismissed the memory, “they were rusted all to shit anyway. Besides, the tub drains on the ground– not like there’s a pipe to clog.” He squirted some shampoo on his palm. “You gonna stand there yakking or are we gonna get on it–it’s broiling out here.”

Joe returned from Jupiter when the stream of water hit him. He bolted for safety but couldn’t get traction on the tub’s slick bottom. Bob grabbed him around the neck and Joe slid to the front of the tub. He held still, warbling softly as I soaked him down.

“It’s okay, Joe, you’re okay,” Bob comforted his pooch, working the shampoo into a grey lather. Joe struggled again, scrambling to get his back legs under him, then suddenly stopped. His yellowish dingo eyes began to widen.

“Brain-lock,” I opined.

Bob ignored me to encourage Joe: “Good dog, good dog. Just keep still and we’ll be done in a few minutes. You can’t help being old, can you?”

Joe answered with a low, trembling yowl.

“What’s he yodeling about?” I wondered aloud.

“Hell if I know.” Bob rubbed Joe’s neck. “What’s the matter buddy?”

I noticed the greyish-yellow scum building in the bathtub and gratuitously advised Bob, “I wouldn’t bathe that dog without some industrial-strength, eight-ply latex gloves. You wake up tomorrow, you might not have fingernails.”

Bob glanced at the rising scum. “That’s the problem. Joe’s sitting on the drain, got it blocked, and the water’s rising–thinks he’s gonna drown. Let me scoot him back down, off the drain.”