Fur

Sally snuggling with John (and giving him some fur!)

Spring has arrived at last, with all its sweet blossoms and breezes.  The breezes carry the joyful songs of birds and the busy buzzing of bees, the sweet fragrance of rejuvenation and delicate rolling clouds of fur.  Yes, the shedding has begun.

I come home these days so covered in dander that I should, as a courtesy, carry a long stick to keep beyond a poking distance from anyone with pet allergies.  A sample square inch of my shirt would cause scientists to drop their beakers at the shock of finding so rich a genetic pool.  Dozens of dander types are represented, and given the will and a healthy supply of spare beakers, a lab could clone a dog army large enough to threaten our nation’s strategic milkbone reserves.  I don’t mind being a little extra-furry though.  In fact I take a little pride in coming home looking like a house painter who paints in fuzz. The only real harm is to the lint traps at my corner laundromat.

The short-haired dogs are not so bad.  They still shed, but a quick, vigorous rubbing of the back and rump seems to quickly bring out the day’s harvest, and these puppies seem to doubly appreciate a petting with a purpose.  A quick balling-up of these filaments of discarded winter coat and out we go to give it to the birds for the padding of new nests. It’s a mundane but no less inspiring essential part of the circle of life.

The long-haired dogs are a bit more difficult.  I have to refrain from petting them too much until we’re outside, and then make sure the wind is at my back.  Some dogs shed whether I touch them or not.  For example, Biscuit, the yellow lab, needs only wag his tail to scatter his yellow all around the kitchen.  Anywhere I pet him becomes the epicenter of a fur explosion (or “fursplosion”) large enough to make the allergic weep for miles around.  Sally, on the other hand, gets as much petting as ever.  Her long black hair is as eager for retirement as any dog’s, but hers is also the softest, silkiest pelt ever found not on a mink. I simply can’t resist.  This, and the fact that she loves to nuzzle and cuddle and wrestle, means I also end my day with the silkiest softest pelt not found on a Sally, and if have a little stubble on my face walking into the house, an amazing velcro-nuzzle effect guarantees that I’ll leave the house looking like Blackbeard the Pirate.  But yohoho, it’s worth it.

Beau the Poodle has hair instead of fur (what does that mean and why is it creepy?), but I he doesn’t get regular visits, so literally every dog I walk is lightening up, so to speak.  I guess it’s a part of pet ownership.  Just because we love our dogs doesn’t mean we have to love every cell.  There are those hairless Chinese dogs, but it would be hard to love any of their cells.  Dogs are supposed to have fur (dern it, I’m taking a stand on something) and fur is supposed to come out when the weather warms up.  How else will birds build nests? What will become of the millions of lint trap service and manufacturing jobs? Who will feed those families?  How else will I ever become a pirate while remaining a (mostly) law-abiding citizen?  See, it must be.  And for the people whose dogs I walk, fear not:  I take most of the fur home with me.

 

 

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