Furballs

It's nasty when a cat cacks up a furball, but at least it's pretty easy to clean the damn thing up. Ohhh, how different with Sailor, the Australian shepherd we've been dog-sitting for two weeks and counting. He leaves them in slow-motion.

You'd think that with four or five walks daily to rub up against every urine-smelling bush along the track, and with the brushings we give him, there might be some relief. It's utter futility. Every square inch of floor in the house has either silky wisps or clumps like this mess on the deck.

I started trying to cope with twice-daily sweeping, then added a damp Swiffer (which also helped with the little issue drool marks on the hardwood). And slowly, dejected, cut back to one damp sweep a day. And now, admitting defeat, I'm just letting the disgusting debris pile up in drifts, waiting for Gregory to work his Murphy's Oil Soap magic on Friday.

And even Robert has vowed: No big dog, ever. No shedder, ever. Those are vows it will take him about 10 minutes and one wagging tail to forget utterly.