. . . SIX BITS

Fuzzy Pup’s getting a haircut.   It’s gone on in three installments, beginning Saturday afternoon, and involving a pair of horse clippers (with no depth/length guide like the good WAHLs we’ve had for several years, and which provided a neat high-and-tight like from a military barbershop):

I’d had no idea we’d been harboring a walking equivalent of about a moo-hillion dandelions in the house, for the flying wisps of gold and white fluff were were lifting off into the wind from back door to garden gate, and settling on plants, cars, furniture, gazing balls and people in between. The whole back yard took on the floaty forest atmosphere of LEGEND---didn't you wonder how Tom Cruise could BREATHE for all that floof in the air?    From here to the arbor looked like early frost, until the rain set in again.

And in between clippings, there was a tub-bath, with good shampoo and rinsings and towelings and fla-fla-fla-flaaaap shakings and those dashing runs free in the breeze with a delight in his step occasioned only by a good bath and haircut. He gets so overjoyed he tries to meet himself coming back.

 

There was also a really raggedy, unfortunate look to the little fellow, like he’d just partially molted, and embarrassment had halted the process halfway through, with great clumps and valleys, and his whole belly the naked, shiny pink of baby pigs.

And even Caro took one look and asked, “Did you BLINDFOLD Chris before he went OUT THERE?”

So now he and Sweetpea and a resigned little dog are at it again, with flying floofs and big shorn spots, and his back like tan corduroy from the clipper-tracks.   Poor little guy.

Perhaps that’s what prompted Sweetpea to come running in just now, asking, “Where’s his COSTUME?” 

Me washing dishes:  “Whose costume?”---thinking innocently of Sock-Monkey, who wore a pair of Sweetpea’s tee-ninecy pants from babyhood and a little Pooh shirt to the soccer game and brunch on Saturday.

“FUZZY’S costume,” (in a tone of gentle regret for my backwardness)---“the PENGUIN ONE!”

Now, we haven’t had ANYTHING penguin in this house since that stuffed Opus that was gnawed to bits by another visiting GrandDog many years ago, so I had no idea where she got that---but I referred her back outside to Ganner.  Maybe she thought he'd get chilly, shorn to the skin and all.

And I’ll bet there’s enough fuzz on the patio table to knit another dog.