My dogs would love to be shaved right now. Well... they'd love the effects of being shaved, although the act of shaving them would cause them to run and hide under tables and pee on me when I try to get them out. Every summer is a bit of the same. About the time we hear the sound of George's panting over the sound of the fan, we grab the scissors and coax him on to the floor in the living room where he is given the worst hair cut for a collie ever. He's had that cut twice this year, and even still he doesn't want to stay out side until 11 pm when the temperature drops ten degrees and we see double digits again. He's staring at me now, he feels uniquely positioned to lament about the heat, and the fact that it's kept him and me copped up for the last three weeks.
I find myself longing for the rain, and hoping and feeling in my bones that when it does rain again (and my grass remembers how to grow) it's going to be one hell of a storm.
Until then, I've got the scissors, and George is headed for the table....
No comments:
Post a Comment