We currently live with what we describe as our first last dog. He is a mostly Corgi mixed breed, which translates to a giant pain in the butt, wrapped in a very hairy 25 pound hide.
There is the constant consideration of what to do with the dog if we go anywhere he is not welcome. It takes an additional 30 seconds and an extra click on the computer to find a hotel room where he is as accepted as we are. His rent for the space is exorbitant, between 25 and 40 bucks a night, which is probably fair, considering the amount of hair he leaves behind.
And even though he will eat anything, especially if it is off my plate, he becomes easily bored with his regular dog food, leaving us to constantly search for a selection he will lower himself to eat. Even then, he will only entertain that particular type for about a week or 10 days before he turns his petite little nose up at it and refuses it. Until we aren’t looking, that is. He will creep back and take one kibble at a time until the entire portion is consumed, all the while trying to convince us he is at the brink of starvation.
Then there is the hair. Holy guacamole, at the hair. It doesn’t seem to matter whether we groom him, wash him regularly or take him to the doggie spa. The hair is everywhere. And this is coming from a woman that raised four girls, who all at one time or another, and often at the same time, had hair down past their waists. I am used to hair.
But not Corgi hair. I think it is akin to Labrador hair, or Australian Shepherd hair, or something. It is persistent, consistent and ever-present. It covers the floor, the furniture, the seats and mats in the truck, everything. It is even in the clothes, despite the frequent use of special dryer sheets to combat it, and the liberal application of a lint roller and brush kept specially for that purpose. We even used those special tabs to run in the washing machine once a month to clean the hidden parts that harbor dog hair.
Each and every time we run the vacuum, or sweep the floor, there is hair everywhere. Even if it has only been three minutes since the last pass over that floor. It regenerates itself, seemingly by magic. Go to dump the full basket on the vacuum cleaner, when I return, there is enough to refill it. Step over to pick up the dustpan to collect the hair I just swept up, there is enough hair where I just swept to make another dog. There is no end to it.
But recently, I was petting the miserable mutt and noticed his face is beginning to turn gray around the muzzle, which set me to figuring out his real age. He is well into middle age, and maybe past that. I don’t want to think about the coming progression of aging for him. I sure don’t want to think about life without him.
In spite of the added work of all that hair, tempting him with special tidbits and trying to figure out how he can take up all the bed, he’s not that much trouble. For a little dog, he fills a big spot in my heart.