As this monstrous year draws to a close, I am enormously grateful for two things. 1) My husband has recovered from a rough bout of Covid and 2) I have so far escaped its heinous clutches. That is not to say, however, that I have come through this god-awful time unscathed, especially as regards my mental faculties.
At first it was merely my typical scatterbrained moves, like frantically searching the house for the very keys I was holding in my hand or forgetting why I went in a room (although, to be honest, it was a bit concerning when I forgot why I’d gone into the separate “water closet” in my bathroom. I mean, there are only so many options there). And, true, a few days later, I did absentmindedly turn the shower on full blast . . . while I was cleaning it, completely clothed, scrub brush in hand. But who hasn’t had such little lapses?
Then came the day I humiliated myself by spewing absurd word salads at my doctor’s office. In my defense, I was in pain and very nervous, awaiting the results of my CT scan. I meant to say the pain reminded me of the round ligament pain of pregnancy, but anxiety had apparently scrambled my brain, and I instead described the pain as similar to the “o-ring” pain of pregnancy. And I said it not just once, mind you, but twice, quite insistently. The o-ring pain? Seriously? The o-ring was the defective part that led to the space shuttle’s tragic explosion in 1986. Why had my brain suddenly retrieved and spat out that wildly off-topic term from thirty-four years ago? Then, because that wasn’t nutty enough, when requesting the order for my bone density test, I babbled some twisted mess like “I need a DEXA-densit-bone-tometry-scan.” What the actual?
Thus, the groundwork had clearly been laid for what became my culminating brain malfunction of 2020. I had one job, to pick the dog up at the kennel after my husband and I had returned from an overnight trip. Now, understand, it’s not because “we fancy” that our dog happens to have his own car. It’s because by the time I finally agreed to update my thirteen-year-old SUV with a new one, my husband insisted on holding onto my well-worn Old Faithful for hauling around our eighty-pound, ever-shedding, oft-muddy-pawed Lab, Harper. In this way, decreed my husband, nary a single dog hair nor a whiff of dog smell would ever sully my spiffy new ride.
So, this morning, after my husband drove off to work, I grabbed my keys and wallet, and without a thought in my head—obviously—headed to the kennel. In the wrong car. It wasn’t until I pulled into the parking lot at Camp Woof that I realized with horror what I had done. “Oh, no, how am I going to take Harper home now?” I cried aloud, in a hyperventilated panic. Calling him an Uber or letting him walk the thirteen miles home alone both seemed like iffy propositions. I had no choice but to violate the no-dog-hair mandate and put him in my pristine new car. Since he’d just had a bath and brush out at the kennel, I hoped his ability to shed a queen-sized fur blanket in under three minutes might be somewhat inhibited.
A cold drizzle was just beginning as I jumped out of the car and ran to the door of the kennel office. Things went downhill from there. I was halfway to the kennel office when I realized I wasn’t wearing my mask. I ran back to the car and got it. When I finally made it to the kennel front desk, I realized I’d left my wallet in my car too. Back through the cold rain to retrieve it. Finally, when Mr. Harper was brought out, I realized I had no leash for him since that was back in his car, so I borrowed one from the kennel attendant, who by now surely deemed me a completely incompetent kook. Masked up, paid up, and leashed up, Harper and I ran through what had become a very steady rain to the car. My initial panic gave birth to full-blown pandemonium when I lifted the cargo gate and realized my new car sat much higher off the ground than my old one. At twelve years old, Harper needed a running start to build enough momentum to navigate that lower threshold, but I could see no way he’d clear this one without a forklift. Which I did not have on hand.
We gave it our best shot. We ran, shivering and soaking wet, from the edge of the parking lot to the open back gate of my car, but every time he could only get his front paws up on the edge of the bumper before bouncing back like giant a Weeble. So, I tried lifting his front half onto the edge and hoisting up his back half, but he would have none of it, swiftly recoiling before I could complete the maneuver. I even tried picking up all eighty, wet, unwieldy pounds of him at one time, but it was impossible.
There seemed no other solution except asking the kennel attendant, the one who already thought I was off my rocker, to come out in the pouring rain and help me deposit my own dog into my own car. Before making the dreaded walk of shame back inside, I had one more go at it. I stood tightly astride Harper like I was riding a horse and stretched his front legs up into the cargo space. I leaned all my body weight against his back and managed to block him in position just long enough to shove his hind quarters up and all the way into the car. It was not pretty, but it worked.
After I got home and unloaded my traumatized canine cargo, I assessed the damage. I determined if I left the windows down until, oh, New Year’s Day, the wet dog smell would dissipate. Hair removal was another story altogether. Not only had he shed enough to make a blanket and two pillow shams, but it was as if the cast-off fur had become woven into the carpeting. A hand vac and lint roller were no match for this stubborn “weave.” After a few passes with those Tinker Toys, I knew I’d have to bring out the big guns, the tweezers, and pluck out every individual hair to return my car to its previously fur-free condition.
So, as the final curtain comes down on 2020, here I sit, in the plucking cargo compartment of my plucking new car, plucking out ten million plucking dog hairs with a plucking pair of plucking tweezers. What a plucking fitting way to end a completely plucked-up year.
2021, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll heed this warning: No New Pluckery! Remember, I have tweezers and I’m not afraid to use them.
Happy Hair-free Holidays to All!