Boys will be boys. Or so they say. In other words, no matter how hard a mother dreams of introverted, deep thinking, book reading sons, the chances are vast that her male offspring's beloved activities may very well include running through muddy puddles and playing war while using sticks for guns!! Shall I alter this phrase some? Because based upon Rose's obvious countless examples, they should say: "Hounds will be hounds"!! A week prior to Christmas, the Chevy van was loaded with groceries. Before carrying everything inside, I coaxed Rose toward our backyard. This way, she does not escape through the front door; My mongrel is safe out there. What could possibly happen? Immediately following the task, I opened our sliding glass door to let my excitable canine back in. I knelt beside her and stroked that velvet-soft fur.... Then, I smelled it!! This stench!! Smeared all over her left cheek!! This black-colored unidentifiable smudge--which smelled like sewage, despite that not being a possibility--was resulted from Rose rolling in something disgusting!! I sat back. "Ew! Rose, you stink!! I exclaimed. "You're getting a bath!!" So into our tub she was carried!! As I hosed my canine down and applied that fresh-scented kiwi/berry dog shampoo upon her skin, murky waters trickled down the drain!! Now she was clean.... Ready for Christmas!! Hounds will be hounds all right!!
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