A Swiffer for their love

My kids love to come over for Sunday dinner, but they hate sitting on soft surfaces.

I'll be having a conversation with one of them and suddenly, the child will leap up as if being consumed by Army ants. The arms start flapping, the eyes go back into the head, and the child retreats into the bathroom.

Never fails.

That's because Scott and I live in a very hairy place.

We have three dogs, two pugs and a retriever, and two of them shed pounds of fine blond fur. It's everywhere, all over the carpets, in the muffin mix, on my pillows. No matter how much I scrub and vaccuum, it's like having tribbles. The fur just keeps multiplying.

Last year, my daughter's friend offered to groom the dogs, as a promotion for her new business and she came in and got to work. An hour later, Hannah the retriever was shorn like a sheep, Gordie, the black pug was so well polished, I could actually see my face on his backside.

Then Krystle went for Ming, the fawn pug.

Big mistake.

Ming came out of the bath tub, jumped on the ottoman, did a 360 and landed on her head. She got up, spun around and fainted.

I thought she was dead.

She might have been dead.

Maybe she's now undead.

In any case, that was the end of the grooming. And so we continue to live a furry existence.

I don't mind the fur. I am always covered in the stuff, so it's futile to worry about it. Why change out of your Lou Lou Liz Lemons, when you'll just get pug fur on the next outfit?

Truly, I look like an old cat lady wandering around.

The grocery lady actually refused to pack my groceries in the recycleable black bags that Loblaws sells because she found a few hairs. I reacted by returning to plastic.

I can't get excited.

I love my dogs and I'm willing to be a human Swiffer for their love.

If the kids don't like it, they can either wear their Slum Dog clothes or eat outside.

Okay, I'm exaggerating.

I'm writing this just so I don't have to clean the house.