August 01, 2002

The Dog Hair Collection

The Dog Hair Collection Miracle

For any of you who eventually wander down to see us here, I don't want you to be surprised that we live with a horse in our house. At least some times it seems that way, growing up with Chihauhuas in the house as a child.

Buster the Black Lab is somewhat less than 100 pounds. He doesn't bark. He doesn't have accidents on the floor. And he has never chewed up anything, although he is fond of fetching scanties from the bedroom, even taking underthings out of the drawer in the bureau, if Ann forgets to close it. He just sort of carries them around, like trophies; so far, he hasn't chewed the crotch out of anything.

But what he does in the house is shed. Copious quantities of short black hair. Every month of the year, some worse than others. This fact really stresses out the Manager of Flooring Hygiene, who advises daily rounds with the Quickie mop and at least tri-weekly vacuuming.

Now I have what I think is a much better idea for low-effort dog hair control, now that we have started pretty much keeping the ceiling fans on during the hot weather here. I always tend to think in terms of economy of motion and effort, and believe that if God didn't mean for us to sit most of the time, he wouldn't have given most of us such large sitting equipment, don't you agree?

What I have discovered is that eventually, the dog hair will come to me. If I just sit patiently, I can pluck it right there where my arm hangs down off the couch, right next to my beer. I consider it a wonderful observation that the fans, if turned up to turbo speed, in effect, create dog-hair tumbleweeds that move about the room, gathering more and more hair until by virtue of sheer weight, they gather in corners, or against objects, like the couch of which I speak.

Always an advocate of the jujitsu method in gardening, tax preparation and house cleaning, I have proposed to my lovely wife that we let the black hair self-collect in the manner I describe, while watching Gunsmoke, for instance. "I AM cleaning", I tell her, and hold up a wad big enough to stuff a pillow, while reaching for my Milwalkee's Best.

As incredible as it may seem, I am afraid she just doesn't get it. Is it a guy thing, being able to see with such clarity what is apparently hidden from feminine eyes? I am sure you have your own examples of this terrible dichotomy between reason and robotic tyranny to habit learned from mothers past.

Come on, guys, help me out here. Give me some more examples to hold up to my little missy to show her the pervasive male energy-conserving wisdom that is out there, such that can make wifely co-existance possible in our lifetimes, if only they will see the light. Bless their little hearts.

Posted by fred1st at August 1, 2002 06:47 PM
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