This morning, as most mornings, I woke Booker, spent some time assuring him that he is the most wonderful puppy in the house, and took him for a walk.
Because of all the rain, there were lots of blades of grass to be sniffed. I really don’t know why the after-rain sniffing is so detailed, but it generally is, so I accept that we’re going for a sniff not a walk. We sniffed our way to Cobra’s house.
Cobra, just in case the recall section of your brain isn’t awake yet, is the cat down the street with whom Booker is very good friends. (Very Good Friends being defined in some weird cat/dog way that I don’t pretend to understand.)
This morning Cobra happened to be out and about doing Cat Things. Unfortunately, he was doing them two houses away. Booker started to whine for Cobra. Cobra ignored him. Booker stared, hard. Booker believes he can control Cobra’s appearance by staring hard enough because one time when he was staring at the closed garage door, it opened and Cobra came out. Booker has not forgotten this. It has not worked since that one time. Booker hasn’t noticed. (No one said he was a candidate for graduate school.) Or if he has noticed, he’s convinced that lightening can strike twice or something.
In response to the whining, Cobra disappear, at his own pace. So far, normal morning. Then the yellow cat appeared.
The yellow cat is the feline Dad loathes. (Ok, to be fair, he’s not much in favor of cats in general, but this one sends him into apoplectic fits. It’s entirely possible the yellow cat is feral—it certainly moves like it’s bones are held together with twisty ties that have been tied one time too many. The yellow cat frequently appears on our property, and I’m reasonably sure Dad’s attitude has rubbed off on the pooch.) The very instant Booker saw the yellow cat, his entire body went on alert. He stared at the yellow cat. The yellow cat stared back.
The yellow cat took a few steps toward the road and twitched its tail. Booker stared. The cat took a few more steps, and twitched its tail. Booker tracked every movement. The cat decided that since Booker was on a leash he posed no threat whatsoever and sauntered, with great condescension, into the street.
In a surprise move (at least to me and the cat), Booker began to bark. A lot. All nineteen pounds of him trying to sound like an aggressive, highly annoyed, unfed Rottweiler. The cat lit off for parts unseen. Booker continued to bark.
Meanwhile, Cobra showed up. Booker barked. Cobra gave him a look that clearly said, “I don’t think so” and walked, as slowly as possible, into his garage. Booker was beside himself (which sort of tangled the leash).
I finally got him headed home and decided to brush him.
Let me just say—if he were a goose we’d be wholesaling down pillows.
Fur came off that boy in melon-sized fluffs. After just a few minutes, he was knee deep in fur. Granted his knees are fairly close to the ground, but still. That’s a lot of fur.
When most people brush their hair, they brush and then end. (I’m explaining this part because you have such short hair I can’t remember the last time you brushed it.) Even Pi (who has enough hair for a small country) gets to a point where she is finished brushing.
Not so with His Furriness. The fluff just kept coming and coming—he is the EverReady Bunny of Shedding. But here’s the funny part. During the entire seventeen hours that I brushed him, he stared intently down the street waiting for a cat to appear. (Never happened.) Eventually, I gave up and we went in for breakfast.
Beware of feral yellow cats and Springtime Shedding (not necessarily in that order).