Eck.

I'm not sure what the purpose of this post is (do any of them have a purpose, really?). Catharsis maybe. Regardless, it's about dogs. Or a dog. Specifically Gracie. This time every year, she sheds. Huge amounts of hair. It's everywhere. I loathe it. I take her outside and brush and brush and brush, huge rafts of fur floating on the breeze across the lawn like the down of a cottonseed tree (only black, less romantic and more houndy if you will). I do this, and yet, these were our stairs this morning.

Gross! I broke down, put Storey in her excersaucer (once a toy, now a containment device), and threw myself into the War Against Hair (WAH, as in "wahhhhhhh", which is what Storey did the entire time I was cleaning).

Ah, the question that runs through my head as I vacuum and sweep and sweep and vacuum; If I could go back in time, would I find us, pre-kid, considering a rescue named Belle (now Gracie), and whisper in our ear "DON'T. Don't do it. She's hairy and she peeps incessantly. When you have a child, she will drive you both completely insane."



(sigh)

No...

Because when she enters the room (giant ball of discarded fur trailing behind her) Storey squeals with glee, wiggles and jumps and bursts with the unbridled happiness that only Gracie inspires. She gives our kid kind kisses and tolerates all her tugging and petting, clapping and screeching with the patience of...

well... us.
Broom and vacuum at the ready.