I thought the mountain trek was the hardest part of this journey, but I was wrong. The hardest part was currently trying to pin down a wet, soapy, and surprisingly muscular Sylveon in a hotel bathroom that was rapidly becoming an indoor swimming pool.
"Sylveon, seriously! Quit it with the ribbons! I can't scrub your paws if you're trying to lasso my wrists!" I grunted, bracing my knees against the tile.
I was down to my shorts, already soaked through by the splash-damage of a very indignant Fairy-type.
"Fly-ah! (It's cold! And you're being too thorough!)" Sylveon protested, her four paws scrambling for purchase on the porcelain of the tub.
I've washed Sylveon a hundred times since she was an Eevee, but her texture never ceases to amaze me. When she's dry, she's like a cloud; when she's wet, she's sleek and surprisingly powerful. But she has one major flaw: she's a diva about "the spot."
"Almost done," I muttered, moving the brush toward the base of her tail. "I just need to get this last bit of mountain clay out."
"Fly-ah! (No! Not there! That's classified information!)" Sylveon shrieked.
Before I could react, one of her ribbons snaked out from the water and wrapped around the leg of the small plastic stool I was sitting on. With a sudden, coordinated yank, the stool vanished.
THUMP.
"GAH! My tailbone!" I yelped, my backside making a very painful, very wet acquaintance with the bathroom floor.
Sylveon didn't wait for an apology. She used the distraction to leap out of the tub, shook herself like a wet Rapidash—spraying me with a gallon of soapy water—and bolted through the bathroom door.
"Wait! Sylveon! You're still soapy! Come back here!" I scrambled to my feet, slipping twice on the tiles before lunging into the bedroom.
I followed the trail of wet, grey pawprints across the expensive carpet. My heart sank. The prints led directly under the heavy oak dresser in the corner—the one spot the hotel maid probably hadn't reached since the 90s.
I dropped to my stomach, peering into the dark gap. "Sylveon. Come out. You are literally covered in dust bunnies now. The bath is officially a failure."
"Sylveon-speech-sound! (NO! You tried to touch the forbidden zone! I live here now. Send for the Egg, I'm starting a new life.)"
"If you come out right now," I pleaded, rubbing my aching back, "I promise I won't use the brush on your tail base. I'll just rinse it with the showerhead. Hand to my heart, I won't scrub."
A pair of glowing blue eyes peered out from the shadows. "Fly? (Pinky promise?)"
"I have never lied to you about bath time, have I?"
Sylveon considered this. It was true; I was a man of my word when it came to grooming. She slowly crawled out, looking less like a majestic Fairy-type and more like a soggy, grey mop. I sighed, scooped her up, and headed back into the "War Zone" for round two.
An hour later, the room was mostly dry, Sylveon was a puffy pink cloud again, and Floette and Togepi were already clean and snoring. Now, only one target remained.
I stood at the bathroom door, a wild, slightly manic glint in my eyes. I had been waiting for this. I had been dreaming of this.
"Growlithe! Your turn, buddy!"
Growlithe trotted in, his head held high. He looked at the wet floor, then at me. Hmph, he thought. The ribbon-girl looks exhausted. I will show her how a professional handles a cleaning. As long as there is no water, I will remain stoic. If a single drop hits my fur, though... I'm biting the 'Mama' and calling it self-defense.
"Okay, Growlithe. No water, as promised," I said, my voice trembling slightly with excitement. I held up the No-Rinse Foam. "Just the bubbles."
Hiss~~~
I pressed the nozzle, and a mound of snow-white foam landed on Growlithe's back. I immediately dived in with both hands.
Oh, sweet Arceus. The texture was better than I imagined. Growlithe's fur was thick and coarse on the surface but incredibly soft and warm underneath. Combined with the slickness of the foam, my hands were sliding through a sea of orange silk.
[Internal Voice: Mwahaha! I'm doing it! I'm petting the unpettable dog! The boundaries are crumbling! Soon, he'll be sleeping on my head like a giant orange hat!]
I was grinning like a comic-book villain, my fingers kneading into his shoulder muscles. Growlithe, facing the wall, couldn't see my face. If he had, he would have called for backup immediately. Instead, he felt a strange, cold shiver run down his spine.
That's weird, Growlithe thought, his ears flickering. Why do I feel like I'm being watched by a predator? The technique is... actually quite masterful. He's hitting all the pressure points. Maybe it's just the draft from the vent.
"Next, the paws," I whispered, my eyes practically glowing.
"Woof!" Growlithe offered a front paw.
Pink. Paw. Pads.
They were warm. They were squishy. They were perfect. I massaged the foam into his 'toe beans' with the reverence of a monk. Growlithe's head began to loll to the side. He let out a tiny, involuntary whimper of prehistoric satisfaction.
"And now..." I said, my voice dropping to a theatrical hush. "The belly."
Growlithe didn't even wait. He flopped over onto his back, legs in the air, completely mesmerized by the grooming.
I dived in. The belly fur was the softest of all—a pale, cream-colored fluff that was practically begging to be buried in. I restrained the urge to plant my face in it (that would definitely end in a Bite), but my fingers did enough work for a whole team. I massaged, I rubbed, I scritched.
"Woof~" Growlithe sighed, his tongue poking out slightly. (Translation: I... I forgive you for the 'Mama' thing. Just... don't stop. If this is prison, I never want to be paroled.)
Late that night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. My arms were tired, my back hurt, and the bathroom smelled like a wet forest, but I felt a profound sense of victory. I could still feel the warmth of Growlithe's paws on my palms.
Across the room, Growlithe was fast asleep on his orange mat. He was clean, he was fluffy, and he was currently twitching his paws in a dream, probably chasing a giant, Oran-glazed sausage.
We had both won today. I got my "fluffy-one" session, and Growlithe had discovered that "The Deviant" was actually a world-class masseuse.
"One step closer to the Arcanine mount," I whispered into the dark, a sleepy smile on my face. "One step closer."