Hair Of The Dog

I’ve been thinking for the last week that I’ve got a dog hair stuck to the tip of my tongue.

Now, before you start suggesting weird or perverted reasons as to why this should be the case, let me state quite categorically that, in my household at least, having dog fur gumming up the works is par for the course. This arises from the fact that, when I first started going out with my Dearly Beloved, I also entered into a relationship with a pair of black-furred mongrels whose business it is to moult all year round. The upshot is that we don’t have any carpet; we don’t need any, as the puppies are busy supplying their own dark-hued deep pile shag.

Unfortunately, they don’t restrict their activities to the floor. They need only jump up on the bed for the barest instant for them to leave dark strands all over the sheets and pillows. Which is why I’ve banned them from the bedroom. Of course, my Dearly Beloved, being the sweet, tender-hearted creature she is, constantly ignores this ban on the grounds that the “doggies only want a cuddle”. And don’t think they don’t know she’s a soft touch, either. I might have put the fear of me into them, but they know she’s a safer haven than your average embassy. Forget political asylum; with my Dearly Beloved, our dogs have diplomatic immunity.

Not that I want you thinking I’m not a dog person. I am. In fact, as a general rule, I like dogs much better than cats. But only certain kinds of dogs. I mean, if you’re going to get a dog, I figure you might as well get a proper dog. An Irish Wolfhound, for instance. Or a Great Dane. Or a Rhodesian Ridgeback. That’s my idea of a proper dog. A creature with stature, with gravitas, with presence. Not one of your piddling, yappy little toy dogs, like the detestable Pomeranian or Poodle. Erich Maria Remarque, author of All Quiet on the Western Front, may have observed that little men are so often the cause of the world’s troubles, but I reckon with dogs it’s pretty much the same.

Okay – that’s a slight generalization, I admit. Afterall, I like some smaller breeds like Staffies and Bullies and Westies. But that’s only because they’ve got character. They’re big dogs who just stayed (physically) small. Still, it’s true that every dog has its drawbacks. Crap all over your backyard is one; and, with certain breeds, dog hair is the other.

Which brings me back rather neatly to my original point. I’ve been trying for the last week to ascertain the precise location of the dog hair I’m sure is stuck to my tongue. But probe and poke and scratch and search though I might, the blasted thing remains damnably elusive. Obviously, at some stage during my sleep in the last week, I’ve rolled over and ingested a hair deposited by one of the mutts while they were being coddled by my Dearly Beloved. Not that knowing the source of said hair has relieved my torment by one iota; if anything, it’s just made matters worse. Afterall, if it was my Dearly Beloved who invited the dogs onto the bed, why hasn’t she been the one to suffer the consequences? I tell you, sometimes the cosmos isn’t just indifferent, it’s downright vindictive!

In fact, I’m beginning to wonder if the hair I think is floating around in my mouth isn’t just a phantom, the echo of a doggy follicle with which I may have once come into unwitting oral contact, but which has long since departed, leaving only its memory on my mouth’s sensory receptors. Which, if you think about it, is actually even more depressing: I can feel the benighted thing, but it just ain’t there anymore to be extracted, thus ensuring my irritation continues. Therefore, I won’t think about it; or, at least, I’ll stop thinking about it as soon as I can convince myself that I haven’t got a hair stuck in my mouth and that there’s no need to twist my tongue into a pretzel trying to dislodge it…

Anyhoo, that’s the explanation I’m offering for my recent silence on this page. Beats me when normal service will be resumed.

Talk to you soon,

BB

Quote for the Day: Dogs feel very strongly that they should always go with you in the car, in case the need should arise for them to bark violently at nothing right in your ear. (Dave Barry)