I came back to a very happy, very shaggy, and slightly squiffy dog. I initiated Plan Canine Clean-Up, which as we all know, involves at least three steps: brushing, shampooing, and shaving. It was going reasonably well – I plied her with treats and took my time, but the Sarah Bernhardt of Doodles let me know of her suffering. Oh, God, how she suffered. Seriously, Streep could take lessons from her.
Time to clean up. Ah, here’s where things start to go pear-shaped. Did I mention I had had trouble with my vacuum? But that I thought I had fixed it? Well, the smart thing would have been to check the vacuum before starting the shaving portion of the plan, wouldn’t it? So that was thirty minutes of fluff-plucking (you heard me) that I’ll never get back.
That was yesterday. *An aside: Hoover is arranging for a new vacuum to be delivered – I’m just hoping it makes it before my first houseguest of the season arrives.* When we finished the grooming yesterday evening, and I had gathered up the clumps and clumps of dog hair, there were still a few patches of fur left on the blanket, so I took it out back and shook it out (after checking carefully for neighbours).
This morning I looked out the window – there was a sparrow with something bright white in its beak – didn’t give it much thought. Then, every time I looked outside, there would be another sparrow carrying a tuft of white fluff. (or maybe the same sparrow, or its spouse). Somewhere along the hedges behind our houses, in the shrubbery (“bring me a shrubbery” – oops, sorry, never mind) there is at least one posh, bright, well-decorated and well appointed nest, with eggs nestled in the softest doodle-down bed imaginable.
Scout, you suffered not in vain, you have contributed to the wellbeing of Orkney avians.