Dogs can be a messy bunch of creatures. As we all know they have a tendency to shed themselves of hairs and furs, coating up the joint in all manner of shaggy splendour and we happen to have one of the most notorious breeds when it comes to the act of such fur casting in the tubby shape of our Pug. When they walk, they shed. When they run, they shed. They eat, they shed. They sleep, they shed. They stoop down in the cool mists of an Autumn eve after circling the garden countless times to find the perfect poop spot, they shed. They waggle their arses in an odd display of booty shaking because their tails are too curled up into the shape of a cinnabon to perform such an act that represents their joy and excitement, they shed. A lot.
Have you ever sneezed as a result of waking up to a thin tuft of prickly fur lining the outskirts of your pillow as it attempts to invade your nose holes!? Well I have and the dog was nowhere around when it happened. He just leaves them there as gifts of golden allergy inducing globules from his mane.
I don’t exactly want them but it seems that neither of us have a choice in the matter. I’ll sneeze and he will just stare at me without an inkling of comprehension that his butt tufts are the reason I am to be awoken in this most inconvenient of manners. It is not like I can return these gifts either which is basically me trying to reinsert these hairs into his coat by poking at him for a several seconds in the hope that they will magically reattach. It doesn’t work and I shall not resort to glue…. yet!
Before we reach that time when our cleaning habits turn to hoovering and the necessity arises that we must begin picking up Oghren’s little fluff stuffs, our home tends to be coated in a thin line of this fawn coloured fur. It is as if he is trying to turn our cushions and our floors into a lifeless, flat dullard of a companion that mildly resembles himself so that he can lord over them as the master of all the fur. He will cover all that he sees in a blanket of ever present pelt shards for he is the Fur King and his reign shall be glorious.
At least he could bloody act like a King if this is to be the case. He can become a little too enraptured by his desire to consume the little bone shaped delicacies that we give him as a reward for his good behaviour. Once this gravy bone has been thoroughly decimated within mere seconds to begin its perilous journey into the tummy of no return, it is practically a given that he’ll want more. Thus he will ignore our warnings to not lick the floors and the carpets in search of them (they are kept in his own special cupboard so his efforts are futile) and proceed to try to procure more for himself by lapping up everything he can with his tongue so frenzied with yearning.
However, there is nothing for him to find on the floor except for his own hair that he has conveniently dropped all over the house. He licks away in the hope of finding some wayward treat that has been lost in time and fur but the end result is always the same. A look of longing, a huff of disappointment, sometimes he’ll gag as he coughs up his own hair and then he will eventually settle upon the lap of my fiancé to begin his evening slumber.
We do know that this fur loss is not intentional. He cannot help that the two coats he received when birthed into his lifetime membership of the Pug parade have to remove themselves somehow lest he become a mobile, fluffy, golden creature with a sheep-fro snorting about the place like a jiggly, puffy pillow. But there is fur everywhere, EVERYWHERE! On the floors, the sofa, the kitchen, the bedroom, the bathroom, my beard! They float around casually placing themselves wherever they please like spiteful little wisps of whimsical fur drops. The relentless little pricks!
I suppose the most ardent representations of this fur loss phenomena are the tufts of hair that combine together to form one mega ball of Pug locks. Sometimes when we haven’t noticed them yet, we’ll see one rolling along in the breeze coming from one of the open windows like a little tumbleweed of fawn hair just going for a stroll. Or a tumble-tuft, if you will, that moseys along looking for a quiet corner to call home.
Until next time folks, may your floors be full of fur and your homes be ever laced in fluff (if you don’t have a pet then I would speak to your partner about this – or an abnormal neighbour if you live alone), for I am going to go and inspect my beard for questionable fawn coloured hairs that probably shouldn’t be there.
Forged From Reverie.