Possibly because of the shortcomings of her puppyhood, Roo got the whole Cleanliness-Next-to-Godliness thing backwards. In her view, cleanliness is the work of the Devil and needs to be undone every day. And like any great devotée, her struggle never ends.
On a graph, Roo's daily journey would appear as a perfect sine wave, undulating from the peaks of the pristine condition to which she is restored by thorough hosing and brushing in the evening, through her overnight dreams of mud pits in which she has to claw her way to a depth of a thousand meters to catch a mouse made of salami — mud so severe and adherent that no Daddy could wash it out even with command of all the seas and oceans — until the next day, when she sooner or later manages to find the dirtiest hole within galloping distance and soaks in it.
It's a little early in her career to rule out surpassing her recent performance, but, the other day, Roo might have peaked. She'll try to top this every day — and of course the hope of achieving an even more profound state of filth and stench will give her something to live for, but it's not going to be easy.
First, she reconnoitered the Atlantic seaboard to determine which section contained the densest accumulation of rotting fish and seagull carcasses. With their abundant oils she anointed herself. Then, after a little mud hunting, a technique which has never produced a single victory over a mouse, she resorted to trudging through a deep agglomeration of algae on nothing more than a rumor she heard from a poodle. That is The Wheel of Life, as it applies to Roo.
The photo below is of Roo being roused from her ensuing meditative state. A dim voice is calling to her from a distant galaxy. It seems to be saying, "I SAID GET OUT OF THE CAR THIS MINUTE, ROO! YOU ARE REALLY IN FOR A HOSING DOWN!"
Alas. It is only a voice. Not even one from this galaxy. Is it not the role of the mystic to discern those of true calling from those that would lead you astray? Must one heed even The True Voice before it clips a leash to one's collar and exerts a force more real than mere annoying intergalactic bleating about how the whole car stinks worse than the hold of a blubber ship in the early stages of a cargo fire? Is one ever completely dirty? Is it even possible to become perfectly dirty? Is that what is meant by Grace? To do that, would a dog have to mop up all the dirt in the world? What would happen to the rest of the world then? What about all the dirt in the universe? Can a dog ever satisfy the powers beyond? Wheels within wheels.
One can only contemplate. All that is known is that eventually the leash is clipped to all. It is certainly clipped to Rooki, anyway. The Devil has work to do.