Hair of the Dog

Well, as all you Colorado Springsians may have noticed, I own the weather now. The very day after I wrote the post about wishing it would hurry up and be fall already, BAM. It was fall.

Last night, to celebrate, I had a little party and all my sweatpants were invited. We talked, laughed, drank hot chocolate with way too many marshmallows, and had ourselves a merry ol’ time.

I’m excited not only because it’s finally jacket weather, but also because the arrival of fall means the end of shedding season!

Don’t get me wrong, I love my dog. Sometimes I have dreams that he died or ran away and I wake up crying. (That’s how I know it’s real love. There is a direct correlation between how much I love someone and the frequency of their being bloodied or killed in my dreams. Gary pretty much dies on a nightly basis.) He lights up my life and I wouldn't trade him for anything.

When we decided to get a Husky, I knew we were going to have to deal with some shedding. People would be like, “Oh, a Husky, eh? Hope you’re ready for shedding season!” and then I’d be like, “Yeah, a Husky! Hope you’re ready to shut up and mind your own business! I am awesome at everything, and last I checked, that includes owning a dog.”

This attitude was only to be expected, as I have never failed at anything ever. (Except for high fives.) I figured dog hair would just be one of those little things that might bug me at first, but that I eventually wouldn’t even notice anymore...kinda like Gary doesn’t notice the mountain of my laundry that lies directly in his path to our bed or the fact that I seem to be physically incapable of taking out the trash or that we have so many condiments in the refrigerator door that the little barricades keep breaking, spilling bottles and jars out all over the kitchen floor. (I tried to think of an example of something that used to bother me about Gary that I’ve learned to live with...but there’s nothing. The dude doesn’t even smell bad. It’s ridiculous.)

Anyway, much to my surprise, I was not prepared for the amount of hair I had to deal with. I didn’t understand! It’s not like I’ve never lived with a dog before...but the dog I lived with was this dog:

Don’t be fooled by the unbearable cuteness. This dog is the bane of my existence. It’s too small to need training, it never sheds, and my mom loves it more than any of her children. (Don’t believe me? Last year, my parents’ Christmas card featured a picture of two dogs in front of a Christmas tree. In the 22 years I lived at home, they never once sent out a picture of their actual children.) On top of everything, it’s so lovable that you can’t really stay mad at it ever.

My main problem with this dog is that I feel it left me shockingly underprepared for having a real dog with real-dog sized poop, a real-dog sized ability to knock my friend Jenny flat on her ass when she least expected it, and most of all, real-dog sized piles of hair.

Ohhh the hairmanity!

All those years of having no idea what Dashboard Confessional was talking about are over.

"Your haiiiiiiiiiiiir is eeeveryyywheeeeeeeeeeeeeeere."

I find it on my clothes, in my mouth, on our furniture, in our food, in Gary’s beard, covering our houseguests...everywhere.

But this weekend, everything changes. I will not rest until every single hair has been expelled from my dwelling place.
 
You tell that hair I’m comin’. AND HELL’S COMIN’ WITH ME!