• doggie detritus •

• doggie detritus •
I wouldn’t say ‘neat freak’, exactly. As applies to me, I mean. I’ve had kids for far too long to have that appellation applied to me and to still have remained relatively sane, considering the vortex of entropy that having said kids generally precipitates: not that I wouldn’t prefer a tidy abode, it’s just not feasible, as long as they draw breath within my vicinity (what I like to think of, as the ‘kid event horizon’), or at least, such has been my experience. Oh, and dogs. Yes, we have dogs, too. Two of the loveliest little shedders in the world. And shed, they do, continually. So no, not a ‘neat-freak’, me – no – more of an ‘order-preferist’, if you will. Or, if you like, a ‘tidy idealist’: perhaps at a stretch — an ‘anti-Second Law of Thermodynamics apologist’. Or so, would I be, in a perfect world, which, as it turns out, it isn’t.
So, when, to pick a time at random, oh, any old time would do, but say, for instance, NOW, as I look down at my clothes and find them virtually covered with doggie hairs, I will admit, with a ‘blush’, to a bit of a pang, along the lines of a ‘cringe’ — not a ‘panic’, exactly, mind you, and wouldn’t do, unless I were to happen to be, say, in a receiving line to meet the President (or doing an improv with Sarah Silverman, or (I wish) at a book-signing with Sarah Vowel), and were to, say, in checking my fly at the last second, have discovered this, on me, which is usual: enough doggie hair to choke an aardvark, or a jackalope!
No. God, no. No panic here: just a kind of inward appreciation that I am alone, sleepy, and too complacent to be starting at minor provocations, with, it goes without saying, an audible sigh of relief that – at present, there lurk no smart aleck teenagers about to say something cute, along the lines of, “Nice hair shirt. When do you go back to the monastery, and by the way, you left your flail in the bathroom, again.”
No, no need to panic, no need to scrabble for the sticky tape, clawing feebly at myself, screaming teeny epithets: just a mild, subvocalized, “Geeze, Louise! Again?”
Maybe, something like that.
And then, I’ll remember the shining eyes of my lovable pups, and, earlier, all the fun we had, and all the love and affection, and wagglety-butt enthusiasms, and rompings, and doggie kisses that made the static that made them, these here hairs, in their hundreds, this here doggie detritus, cling to me like Johnny Lennon to Yoko Ono, and I’ll think: “Me bothered? Not a bit of it.”
~ Tim Burchfield



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