Ozzy needs a bath

I went to the vet the other day for Ozzys jabs.  She told me I had to wash Ozzy because he smelled.  I told her that we had just returned from the forest.  Ozzy, I pointed out, is not a little pooch who sits on Mummys lap.  ( Actually he does sometimes.  He is so big and so affectionate, it turns into a yoga exercice.)   He is a macho intact male and when he is in the forest he bathes in filthy pools,  rolls in horse manure, mud, a decomposing bird, decomposing leaves, that sort of thing.  No wonder he smells. 
Bathing Ozzy means wearing protective clothing. My waterproof sailing gear, actually.  It is an outside summer job.  I need to get the hosepipe out.  He hates it, detests it.   

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