Not to be duped a whiner, this is not a post about my dislike of dog hair...rather an ode to it.
Sunlight sifts through the lean windows facing south, where most of the light comes from this time of year. I always know I've fallen behind on my domestic duties when the sun decides to grace us with it's presence. It shines little beams of warmth into my home, illuminating each and every speck of dust I've ignored over the past week, weeks, month...
Not to be outdone by the dust is the dog hair.
Strands of silky white and black catch my eye as I walk down the hall. Scooping them up with my free hand, I realize that my job has just begun.. For just as the dust seems to have multiplied overnight, so has the dog hair.
I open a closet and pull the purple contraption out called "Animal." It made me promises when I decided to bring it home from the big box store offering $50 off it's original purchase price a few months ago. Lofty promises. Promises worth it's cost. Golden, unicorn and brand-new baby promises that dog hair would be a thing of the past.
Ignorance can be a brutal enemy when it comes to choosing the right kind of dog to bring home and be a part of your family FOREVER. In my case, the old saying "payback is a ..." rings true for all those times I rolled my eyes at my own mother when I was asked to scoop the poop my childhood dog's left in our yard. Note to self: eyerolling will get you nowhere. Had I known, had I researched just a smidgen, I would have known how much Aussies shed. The information is everywhere. Really hard to miss. Yet, caught up in the excitement that my husband had finally agreed to even look at these puppies, I went with the flow, bringing home that 8 pound bundle of joy (and hair) on Labor Day Weekend.
He is a good dog. He is affectionate (read: in my face). He is happy (read: bouncy). He is bonded to us (read: he goes nuts when we're not around). He is friendly (read: he gets frisky with just about any other dog he meets). He is active (read: complete ball of energy), and he is easy to train (read: he knows how to come, sit and stay). He is housebroken (read: oh yes, he is housebroken for sure, now if I could just stop him from lifting his leg 40 times during each walk).
But good golly miss molly, that dog can shed.
A visitor sits on my couch and I am finding it hard to concentrate on what he is saying because all I can focus on are the wisps of hair that I see waving from the arm of the couch on the other side of him. "Hey there, you missed a few when you were vacuuming," they mock me. I resist the urge to brush his pant legs before he leaves.
I am waiting in the doctor's office, passing the time reading one of those god-awful periodicals that you only find in doctor's office waiting rooms and I notice there, on my dark jeans, a gathering of white hairs. I'm a redhead, they are not mine. In fact no human in my home has that color hair...the dog, again. I remind myself to keep a lint roller in my purse.
I scour the Internet for a solution. I ponder getting him clippered. "You don't clipper Aussies!" shouts my husband after I suggest it, the one on the Westminster Dog Show looked like it had been clippered (I still say is was).
I dream of hairless, ugly dogs that shed not a single hair and then I cringe at the thought of actually having to pet such a thing.
He sheds. He does. He sheds more than any other dog I've ever known. True, his coat is easy to maintain, if you remember to brush him daily (which I do not, it wasn't in my contract) and when it gets dirty it is easy to clean. But the shampooing, oh the shampooing, that will kill a person. Oh, the upkeep!
I found a Furminator for $25 on a website selling discount pet products. People tell me this will change my life. I say, it's about time.