It's a rainy Saturday afternoon — the Fourth of July — and we've got nothing to do. We could see a movie, but my wife's got a better idea: Let's torture the dog.

Technically, it's all about giving her a bath cause she smells bad. But the dog hates soap and water, so it's more like: This is gonna hurt me a lot more than it hurts you. Heh, heh, heh....

As my wife hauls the dog up the stairs, the dog gives me a look like: You aren't gonna let her do this to me, are you?

But I'm preoccupied. I'm watching golf on TV. As a I rule, I hate golf — don't play it, don't watch it, don't even read about it. But this is a celebrity tournament and Michael Jordan is playing. So, technically, it's not really golf — it's basketball. It's like I'm watching this tournament and hoping a Bulls game will break out.

"Hey, look everybody," I yell to my wife and daughters, who are upstairs. "Michael Jordan is smoking a cigar while he plays golf."

Jordan tees off. I don't know much about golf, but I can see right away — he sucks at it.

"He's smoking that cigar to cover up for being a bad golfer," I yell out. "He doesn't want us to think he's really trying."

My younger daughter walks through the living room. "Why are you watching golf?" she says.

"Look — Michael Jordan," I say, as she walks out of the room without even looking. "And Justin Timberlake — he's playing too...."

I was hoping that by mentioning Justin Timberlake, I might lure her back to the set. It's always fun to watch these things with someone else. But, no luck.

Jordan misses a put. "I'd like to announce," I yell out, apropos to absolutely nothing, "that I am better at bowling than Michael Jordan is at golf...."

At that moment, the dog, liberated from the bathtub, comes bounding down the stairs at top speed. She races through the living room, the dining room, the kitchen and back to the living room. She completes this circuit three or four times. I've never seen her move so fast. Then she takes a leap from the ground floor to the first landing on the stairs — I swear it's four feet through the air — and gallops to the second floor.

"My God!" I exclaim.

Back comes the dog, charging down the stairs. Through the living room, dining room, kitchen. She dives into the ground and grinds against the rug. Her hair is everywhere. She's desperately trying to dry herself off.

"Dang, girl," I say, "take it easy."

I pick up a book, lay on the couch and within a few minutes, I'm napping....

Fast forward about twelve hours.....

I walk into the bedroom, ready for bed. My wife is reading a magazine. There's something funky in the air.

"What's that smell?" I ask.

"Wet dog," says my wife, her eyes never leaving the magazine. "The whole world smells like wet dog...."

"Where is the dog?"

"She's hiding — she's still traumatized from that bath."

I find her under the bed, her eyes big and round, as if she still wants to know: How could you have let them do that to me?

"You shouldn't have given her that bath," I tell my wife.

"I'll never do it again," says my wife. "I don't care how bad she smells...."

"To tell you the truth, I think she smelt better before you gave her the bath...."