I Only Wash My Dog with Aveda All-Natural

Every time Spring rolls around I think that someone chased Ginger down with a seam-ripper and tore into her ass.

In case you didn't know, Corgis have this super-dense undercoat; so dense, in fact, that Corgi fans everywhere dread the two times of the year they have to deal with what they lovingly refer to as "tufting": when the stuffing falls from your Corgi by the pound (directly onto your couch). Until this afternoon, Ginger had more or less resembled a much-loved but little-repaired teddy bear, her fur danglingly helplessly from her rear-end.

I generally find this amusing. The endless vacuuming, however, not so much. My mother, convinced that I will one day channel the domestic goddess inside, purchased for me the high-end Dyson Animal vacuum cleaner, the one designed to "never lose suction" and guaranteed to remove all pet hair from all surfaces for five years (unless you try to vacuum water... what?). I actually did the one thing I swore I would never ever do: I vacuumed and then covered by beautiful red couches with FLORAL SHEETS in an effort to keep Ginger's endless supply of hair at bay. It didn't work. It's gotten to the point where vacuuming at all is a worthless enterprise; the rug and the furniture don't stand a chance for more than five minutes, and no, I can't just put Ginger outside; she's not that kind of dog.

Anyway. Today I took the Ging out on the front porch and de-tufted her as much as I could possibly stand, decorated my yard with her hair in the hopes that some lazy bird didn't make a nest yet, threw Ginger in the tub and hosed her down. She did not like this, but she tolerated it, and I realized that this was the first bath I had given my dog in the three-plus years she's been sleeping on my very hairy couch (there may be a correlation). But believe it or not, this is not the point of my story.

No, the point of this story is that as I was recoiling from the shower Ginger bestowed on me after she hopped from the tub (even little short dogs can shake shake shake), I noticed some... hair. Under the sink. Now this shouldn't have been unusual; I was just describing to you how my entire house is covered in hair most all of the time, right? But no no, this hair was long. And blond. And... where was Lyra?

There's a point during every day of parenthood where you just stop, take a deep breath, and suck it up. Before finding your kid, of course. With the scissors you already know she has. Chopping her hair off. On your couch. The hair that you just had professionally cut, for the first time, and the couch that you just de-dog-haired (not for the first time).

Hair. Gone.

My daughter is now bald, in spots. And furthermore, she is FINE WITH THIS. Because she "likes it that way," she says. And I... I am okay, as well. I am okay.