There are certain things in life I refuse to think about. Nope. Ain't gonna. You can't make me.
A therapist would call this denial. I call it maintaining a tenuous grip on my sanity. My husband would call it things he didn't know he signed up for when he married me.
These include, but are not limited to, how much I’ve spent on vet bills in a calendar year, exactly what a year’s worth of entry fees and travel expense adds up to and how much dog hair I’ve eaten in my life.
Once, in a fit of morbid insanity, I got out my calculator and added up Phoenix and Banner’s vet bills from 2017, which shall forever be known as The Year of Horrible Things. Jeff would refer to it as the Year of Hey Your Dog’s Throwing Up Again.
Looking at the cold hard numbers, that was a really bad idea. The vet at the specialty clinic where the dogs and I spent an inordinate amount of time in 2017 probably remembers 2018 as The Year I Took A Fabulous Vacation and Bought a New House. Ha-ha, just kidding.
My local vet, who is a wonderful person, only got in on the early diagnostics of things that year but still, she and her husband went to Scotland recently so I’d like to think in my heart of hearts that perhaps my dogs’ combined bizarre medical crisis during The Year From Fucking Hell – oops, The Year of Horrible Things - somehow contributed to their savings for that trip. I may never go to Scotland myself but I can take comfort in the thought that some of my money has been there.
Another un-mentionable topic is dog fur. Dog fur is an occupational hazard at our house. It’s a lifestyle. It’s a condiment.
The number one rule is simple. Deal with it.
Dogs shed. If you can't deal with it, don’t have a dog. Don't marry someone with a dog. Don't be friends with anyone with a dog. Live your life in a sterile bubble. (People with allergies notwithstanding. I'm sorry they can't share the delightful furriness of the world.)
Or have a dog and get a cleaning lady. Or spend a stupid amount of time vacuuming. Or just say to hell with it and buy a lot of lint rollers and get used to plucking fur out of the mashed potatoes.
Maybe ya’ll with your schnauzers and poodles and Portuguese water dogs live beyond the realm of a perpetually furry existence but the rest of us? We’re living the dream and plucking the fur, baby.
In addition to its ever perpetuating source, dog fur shows up in places you would least expect.
In the gravy boat of the good china when you get it out of the cupboard at Christmas.
In the well of my contact case.
In the crisper drawer of the refrigerator next to the apples.
In my lip balm.
Stuck to the screen and keyboard of my laptop.
In the ice cubes.
In the freaking ice cubes! I can't even.
I once took the case off my cell phone and you guessed it - there was dog hair inside. What the what? It took the guy at the cell phone store 15 minutes to get that case on when I bought my new phone. It was damn near hermetically sealed.
On the black pants you KNOW you lint-rollered before leaving for the funeral.
And it goes without saying it shows up in the food.
|And you wondered why Neegan wore that leather coat|
in Georgia in the summer. Leather sheds dog fur.
Like most of the dog owning-training-showing fellowship, I can pluck dog hair out of practically anything and keep eating without batting an eye.
A human hair in food will nearly put me off eating that particular dish ever again.
(I’m still trying to figure out how dog hair gets into the ice cubes.)
I love having dog people to our house for a gathering. No one gets excited if there’s a dog hair in the dip. They expect it.
Dog hair is ingested, inhaled and I’m not entirely sure it isn’t absorbed through the skin. For every bit of fur I’ve surreptitiously plucked off a pork chop or brushed off a biscuit before setting it on the table, I figure I’ve probably ingested that much twice over.
In the ice cubes. Seriously. How?