I don't understand how my dogs aren't bald. Two beautiful huskies—Lucy, a Siberian mix, and Ricky, a Malamute mix—live with my spouse and me. They can be a hot mess some days as they shed terribly. If I spend an hour brushing them and remove a pillow's worth of hair, they will still shed more on the floor.
Honestly, I've given up trying to brush them most days. Ms. Lucy especially hates the dog brush. The second it comes out, she skitters in place, trying to run as fast as her legs will carry her in the opposite direction. (Slick wood floors are tricky.) Ricky is more stoic. He'll tolerate the event for a while, then roll over on his back so I can brush his tummy. But eventually, he'll have had enough as well and refuse to sit still any longer.
Often, tufts of hair sit on top of their coats, eager to find a home under my couch. I pull those little bits out when they accumulate. Then these combined gobs of fur and hair go right into the trash most of the time. Sometimes in the spring, I dispose handfuls of it into the backyard. Perhaps some little bird can use the lusciously fluffy undercoat for a perfect nest. Or so I imagine.
The problem is that I'm not a bird. I have no desire to build a nest in a tree and thus do not need piles of dog hair. And yet, heaps of fluffy white, gray, and red hair inundate my home—everywhere.
We've named our Roomba "Rambo" because of its daily war on dog hair. Rambo fights a courageous battle, but honestly, it's a losing game. The floor looks great after the vacuum runs its course, though before it finishes the room, my animals have already deposited more of their coats for the next run. If Rambo has any sense of accomplishment at all, it must feel defeated as soon as it turns its little digital brain around and sees what's behind it.
I'm trying to build up an analogy here. Wondering where I'm going? I'll be honest, sometimes I wonder too. Although today I'm trying to make a point that I'm a lot like my dogs. Everywhere I go, I leave parts of myself behind. Not physical aspects, more a "wake" of feelings as I intermingle with others. We all do. We can't help it.
When I interact with my husband, I can leave behind negative or positive ones. If he's left behind a raised toilet seat—my vibes might be less than encouraging. However, if he checks on my greenhouse for me—joy fills my heart, and love flows out.
What about when I'm having a rough day? Do my co-workers spread the word to avoid "her" office? Does my husband decide that he'd prefer to go back to work and deal with felons, rather than spend time with me? (He's a police officer.)
I often ponder what I'm leaving behind when I encounter others. Sometimes I know it isn't good, and when that realization hits, I try to go back and apologize. The day's mood is recoverable when we take the time, humble ourselves, and fess up that we're less than perfect beings. Challenging as that may be to do some days.
If you have a dog, you know that even when you are a miserable human, they still love you unconditionally. My husband is also gracious and loves me even when I'm kind of bratty. Love you too, sweetie!
That doesn't mean that I don't need to monitor what I'm leaving behind.
Have a thought about this? I'd love to hear from you!
