It's a dog's life?

At least, I’m hoping that’s the case because if this isn’t a dog’s life it’s mine, and I don’t want this to be mine.

I speak, of course of the chore(s) attendant upon maintenance of canine cohabitants, of which we have two fewer than Sherree but still, that’s two more than we would need to have should I decide to retire from dogitude, or to be more blunt, servitude to or for dogs.

I have been home for a bit over an hour as I write this. Home being the term I like to use rather than referring to my evenings here rather less kindly but much more accurately than I might. Such as if I called evenings in this place, say, my second job, the chore fest or simply, my indenture.

In this little bit more than an hour I have neither eaten nor consumed liquid refreshment. I have changed from my day job clothing to my evening servitude ensemble which consists of clothing that I don’t mind getting covered with dog detritus. Doggy floss. Hair.

The dog hair of which I speak is easily identifiable as such using visual criteria:

·         It is not silver, therefore not mine;

·         It is not auburn, therefore not Mary’s or Two’s;

·         It lies about the floor in clumps great and numerous, as this is – you guessed it – shedding season.

So my evening thus far has been taken up with vacuuming dog hair, brushing out the dogs’ coats which is not that much fun since neither dog is much in favor of the process, emptying the vacuum cleaner and of course, providing water for the dogs who have let me know with both stance and expression that being brushed is thirsty work.

How did the canine come to be our best friend? Or is it just that we’re their best friends and we go through a self-defensive transference in believing they return the favor.

I love my daughters’ dogs. But I also love Sherree’s dogs and they have the advantage of being at Sherree’s. When daughters leave home, dogs remain.

Shedding.

And begging for stuff.

Snakes don’t shed. Oh, wait, yes they do. Nastily.

Damn.