Pulling Hair

I just furminated Scout and now she wants nothing to do with me.  She was okay when I was gently combing her with with The Furminator.  Then I discovered that all of her German Shepherd undercoat wound up near about her ass, and that’s where all the mega-shed was coming from.  I attacked. That’s when she decided she wasn’t that tight with me anymore.  It’s okay, though. I really love that dog, but after a long afternoon of her a.) being really, really, really excited about her recently re-discovered squeaky cucumber and b.) vomiting all over the office after ingesting what must have been 45 Million treats (delivered lovingly by a grandma neighbor type who is making it her one-woman-mission to fatten up all the neighborhood animals) and a bowl of food.  There was not one, but THREE massive piles of soggy doggie vomit that she ever so lovingly held in until about 45 seconds after I let her inside.  That’s right. There was exactly one minute window that stood between me and a 3-pile-cleanup, and I was on the wrong side of that one minute.

The way Scout reacts to brushing reminds me of SisterKaty (who’s not a nun, regardless of how much her blogname makes her sounds like one) when she was 8, crying as mom brushed out her long, tangled blonde locks.  I never truly understood being “tender headed,” as a child who could easily rip handfulls of hair out of my own head with no pain. (And often did for attention, but that’s a very different issue, an issue for which I have had counseling) Katy’s tender headedness was the only damn advantage I ever had when it came to sisterly hand-to-hand combat.  There were many a trampoline wrestling sessions that ALMOST ended in me getting my ass handed to me by my baby sister.  If it hadn’t been for my exquisite hair pulling skills, I would have REALLY EMBARRASSED MYSELF.

Katy, keeping the hair short to level the playing field

Happy Weekend.