Tag Archives: dog fur

If you give a wife a mouse…

I’ve written before about my never-ending battle with my dog’s asexually reproducing fur and my suspicions that it has become self-aware, thus leading to rogue hair armies which are taking over my house in an Alexander-the-Great-esque manner.

Well, the battle has just been taken to the next level. I’m not quite sure how it managed to do it, but somehow Buffy’s fur temporarily defeated me by pulling a Trojan horse on Sunday. (But, you know, a Trojan horse on their level, which would be a mouse…they are only hair afterall, albeit evil villain overlord hair).

I should have known something was up. Ever since it’s gotten colder, the fur seemed to be retreating, staying at base camp located on my dog’s body in order to gather strength for the summer attack. Oh, how naive I was! Letting down my guard and growing lax in my sweeping defenses!

Which is EXACTLY what they wanted.

And which brings us to Sunday. In an effort to avoid writing or doing anything productive that would potentially result in a paycheck, I decided to do a quick Swiffer sweep just to make sure there was still a hardwood floor underneath the carpet of black fur (calm down, fellas…I know my domestic skills are wildly attractive but, alas, I am already taken).

And that’s when my highly astute observational skills, sharpened to a fine point thanks to my years working as a journalist, noticed that one hair clump seemed a bit bigger than the others. Upon closer examination, it also seemed that the clump had grown a tail. Naturally, my first thought was that the fur had evolved, having obviously managed to accelerate the natural process via experiments involving uranium or whatever that substance Wolverine is made out of.

But that was just silly. Where would the fur get uranium this time of year?

And that’s when it became clear just what I was dealing with. Underneath the fur was a real, live mouse.

A.

Mouse.

Who had apparently entered our house using the fur as a disguise, having apparently been unable to find a tiny potted plant to sneak in behind. Either that, or it had been dead for so long, the fur had built up around it. And to be honest, I’m not quite sure which scenario is less disturbing.

I am proud to report, however, that I did NOT do the typical chick thing, which is to scream, jump on the table and do what can only be described as the “hibbity-jibbity” tapdance. Instead, I calmly walk into my husband’s office, calmly told him the situation, and then calmly climbed onto the back of the couch in a crouching position as I calmly held my dog out in front of me in a shield-like manner in anticipation of any aerial vermin attack.

And then from my perch I helpfully shouted things like “Is it dead? If it isn’t, don’t kill it. It’s not his fault!” and “It moved?! KILL IT! KILL IT! KILL IT! KILL IT! AHHHHHHH! KILL IT!”

I’ve always been fascinated by this particular disconnect in the women’s brain. In general, we love bunnies, squirrels, hamsters…pretty much anything that is small and furry and had a supporting role at one time or another in a children’s movie. So in theory, mice are in that same cuddly category. Not to mention, as children we grow up with Mickey Mouse, Jerry of Tom and Jerry fame and Speedy Gonzalez. Hell, the majority of Americans thought a rat cooking in a French restaurant was not only cute, but a worthy subject for a feature-length film.

But there’s a very good reason why mice don’t fall into that category in real life. See, outside or in a cage or anywhere that is not inside your actual house, a mouse looks like this:

But once it’s inside your house, it turns into this:

Luckily, my very brave husband, armed with only a Swiffer, an empty beer box and a hockey mask, was able to trap the mouse and then set it free in our yard, where it can live a happy and healthy life devoted to coming right back into our house through the same hole it came in the first time.

And as for Buffy’s fur, all I have to say is…nice try, guys. You may have thought you could unhinge me by convincing an innocent (outside my house) mouse into some sort of suicide bomber mission, and yeah, I’ll admit it worked a little considering I now jump every time I see more than two individual hairs together in a corner, and yeah, I may have had a few nightmares involving mouse tails growing out of inanimate objects and perhaps my forehead, and yeah, I’ve spent the last three days scrubbing this house and my naked body with bleach and ammonia, and yeah, I may be “technically” sleeping in the car in freezing temperatures out of my fear a mouse will crawl into bed with me and eat my face off, BUT you haven’t won yet.

Cause I got a Lady Bic with the name Buffy written all over it.

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On the 13th of December, Christmas gave to me…

Carefully and lovingly wrapped gifts covered in dog fur thanks to the fact I wrapped them on my constantly-cleaned-but-never-quite-clean floor.

CORRECTION: On the 13th of December, Christmas gave to all my closest family and friends carefully and lovingly wrapped gifts covered in dog fur thanks to the fact I wrapped them on my constantly-cleaned-but-never-quite-clean floor.

You’re all welcome.

P.S. Buffy says you’re all welcome too. And he hopes you cherish his DNA this most merry of seasons.

Hair today, shaved tomorrow

I know I’ve been writing about my dog a lot lately. And I’m sure it’s getting annoying.

But good news! I promise it will stop.

Right now.

Right now…

After this post…

WAIT! Wait, don’t leave! I promise this will be the last time but ifyouleaveyounowyou’llreallyregretitcausethispostisatleastmildlyamusing
andit’snotlikeyouhaveanythingbettertodoandohheydidyouhappentoseewhere
typingthewordsclosetogetherlikethismadeitspelloutthewordtitheh.

Anyway, as I was saying, I’m sure you guys are tired of hearing about my dog. But in my defense, writers tend to write about things they know. And since I now work from home, most of the things I know revolve around spending 10 hours a day stuck in the house alone with Buffy.

Ah, yes, the glamorous life of the freelance writer (I also now know 52 ways to make Ramen taste less sucky…The key? Drink heavily while cooking).

The other thing that happens when you spend this much time at home is that you notice just how truly dirty your house is. I mean, when you leave to go to a job every day, it’s easy to ignore the pile of dishes, the crumbs, the beer pyramid on the coffee table, the hobo who has taken up residence in the southwest corner of the living room. But when you can’t escape the filth, you’re forced to deal with it on a daily basis and…*SHUDDER*…clean. Like regularly. And not on my preferred former cleaning schedule of “I can’t take it anymore…where’s the mop? Sh*t! Do we have a mop?”.

Which, brings me back to my dog. With this new cleaning habit I have acquired, I also now notice just how much dog hair he sheds on a daily basis. Whereas before I was used to the random “dog fur tumbleweed” moseying through the house, it has now escalated to “Indy running away from the giant boulder” proportions.

There’s so much hair that I’m starting to suspect Buffy isn’t even really a dog, just some mutant strain of dog fur that once rolled through a puddle of nuclear waste, became self-aware and started to asexually reproduce.

It never used to be this bad. At first, I thought he was shedding so much just out of spite because I refuse to let him eat that uppity cat next door. But then I realized we now live in a place with seasons. Like, four of them. And four seasons means cold and hot. Which means pets gain and lose fur on a regular basis. Which means 94 percent of my life will henceforth be devoted to sweeping.

Not that I’m bitter.

Or anything.

I mean, it’s just EVERYWHERE! Every corner! Every crevice! It gets into the fridge! The A/C vents! The couch! And the last straw…my BOOZE!

Oh, and I’m pretty sure the majority of my major airways. Maybe even the minor ones.

It just floats through the air, with the greatest of ease, settling on everything like a 1930’s dust storm.

And I am at my wit’s end. Which is why, depending on just how many more vodka and cranberry juices I have tonight, Buffy will wake up tomorrow morning looking like this: