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Humor: Hair Today

We have a problem with the fuzz at our house. It’s actually more of a fur issue, but let’s not go splitting hairs.
Our cat, Sparkles, is supposed to be a barn cat. And she is – most of the time. But when the nights turn chilly, or when it’s raining outside, or should a cloud happen to pass over the sun, my tenderhearted wife will look out the window and say, “I feel bad for the poor kitty!”
Sparkles knows exactly how to play upon my wife’s sympathies. She (the cat) will sit outside our window and meow in a way that’s so sad and forlorn, it could turn stone into melted butter. Her piteous cries combined with her innate cuteness are kryptonite for even the most iron-hearted curmudgeon.
So we will open the door for Sparkles and she will saunter in nonchalantly, exuding an aloofness that seems to say, “OK, I’ll come in. If you insist.”
After extracting pats from us, Sparkles will wander about the house and investigate every nook and cranny. This part of the bargain benefits us greatly, as Sparkles is a merciless mouse murderer. She will often share news of her successes with us by leaving a ghastly surprise on our front steps.
But Sparkles is also a major source for our nation’s strategic loose fur reserve. Even though she’s a fanatical bather, Sparkles sheds at a rate that would rival an alpine blizzard. Between her wanderings and her shedding, I’ve come to the conclusion that the cat’s main goal in life is to leave fur in every corner of our house.
Our vacuum cleaner will collect enough fur in one day to assemble an entirely new cat. It’s as if Sparkles is able to shed fur faster than she can grow it.
The only upside to all of this is that I can blame the cat for any stray hair that might appear anywhere in the house.
“Why is there a hair in the pudding?” my wife might ask.
“I dunno,” I’ll reply. “Maybe Sparkles got into the fridge. After all, she is a puddy tat.”
But our hairy troubles don’t end there. We have a golden retriever named Sandy who is a happy-go-lucky, dissolute, empty-headed galoot. This describes many of his breed, along with the majority of the Kardashian clan.  
Sandy is an outdoor dog. This is a good thing, as he has more fur than a herd of wookies. If hair were brains, Sandy would be the smartest being on the planet.
Sandy’s shedding mechanism leaps into overdrive as soon as warm weather arrives. He sees his ability to shed fur in monsoon-like quantities as a stroke of great good fortune, one that he is eager to share with my wife and me. I guess we can’t blame Sandy. After all, we’re the coolest people that he knows.
Drifts of castoff fur will appear on the sidewalk and on the steps. Opening the front door means running the risk of being assaulted by wafting wads of brown fur. Fur that is constantly looking for an opportunity to wend its way into our house and perhaps even into our pudding.
Between his galumphing about and his shedding, I have come to the conclusion that Sandy’s main goal in life is to leave fur in every corner of our farmstead.
My wife recently became concerned that Sandy was growing increasingly uncomfortable due to the warming weather. She suggested that we take him to a groomer for a trim. I personally don’t go for such falderal.   
“How would you like it if you had to wear a full-length fur coat in this heat?” asked my wife.
“It depends. Are we talking mink or chinchilla?”
So we took the dog to a groomer. It was Sandy’s first time, so there was a lot of whining and squirming and struggling involved. In other words, it was very similar to my first haircut.
The groomer harvested approximately a metric ton of fur from Sandy. He didn’t look like the same dog when it was over. He was sleek and svelte and suddenly seemed years younger.
My wife appraised our freshly barbered dog, then looked at me out of the corner of her eye. She whispered to the groomer, “Do you have time to squeeze in another quick clip?”
“I’ll distract him with this toy while you grab him by his collar,” the groomer whispered back.
All’s well that ends well. Sandy appears to be much more comfortable, and we no longer have to deal with his billowing clumps of stray fur.
And those chewy treats that the groomer hands out are actually quite tasty.                   

Jerry Nelson’s book, Dear County Agent Guy, is available at and in bookstores nationwide.

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