Cub says, wrinkling his nose and puckering his face in a look that screams disgust. His arms strain under the old tin tub that’s holding Mom’s flowery-scented shampoo, a few old towels, Dead End’s dog brush, a plastic cup for rinsing, and a rawhide bone big enough to choke an elephant. “Which is exactly why he’s getting a bath with the most sweet-smelling shampoo I could dig up.” Even the usual barn smells of hay, oats, and dusty chickens are being overpowered by the sour stench rising off the wet, greenish-brown smudges that mat the blond fur of Dead End’s muzzle, shoulders, and sides. How a pooch could stink himself up so bad is beyond my twelve-year-old imagination. “Sweet-smelling shampoo,” Cub mutters under his breath. “Just like a girl.” Dead End pulls toward the door, determined to break free of his leash, even if that means snapping my wrist in two like some dried twig. I manage to get the plastic bag out from the pocket of my shirt. And sure enough, the second I toss Dead End the last of the cranberry-raisin cookies that I’d baked, he forgets about freedom and snatches the thing without losing a crumb.
