Re-reading Piers Paul Read's Alec Guinness, I come upon an invitation by Sir Alec to the author: "If the weather is decent we could eat out and avoid the dog hairs in which we live and have our being."
Well, that says it all, doesn't it? I have chosen to live and have my being in dog hairs. One of the carpool moms (a gimlet-eyed persnickety housekeeper with lint-attracting upholstery in her car) who took her weekly turn chauffeuring Maren to and from Bella Vista told me she had to spend a half hour cleaning the back seat after she had taken Maren to school. I was truly shocked. I'm sure Jip left plenty of his soft white hair (he was double-coated) all over all the carpets, but here is the thing: I had never noticed. (I started putting Maren's clean pants on right before she ran out the door so she didn't have time to get down and play on the floor.)
I was sorry for the trouble the dog hairs caused, but there you have it; even though I wear black most days, I am resigned to white dog hairs on my clothes, occasionally in my mouth and trapped in my eyelashes. It's really a small thing to put up with from one who is so generous with his love and devotion.
And don't you think someone who would spend a half hour removing dog hair from her back seat just might have her priorities misplaced?
Another bird leaves the nest
14 years ago
3 comments:
Who was the carpool lady?
I'm sure you can figure that one out! (Or maybe you were too little to know that another neighbor referred to her house as "the operating room.")
Yikes. I don't want to think about the many awful reasons for the nickname of "the operating room." Love to think about the dog hair though. Sometimes I still open an old box of sweater and find some.
Post a Comment