The Great Fluffpocalypse

It was grooming day here at the farm—also known as “The Great Fluffpocalypse.”

Dora, a Cockapoo, is our needy child. She has that wonderful, non-shedding poodle coat and had just gone to the groomer last week for her usual shampoo, haircut, and diva treatment, so she was in zero need of a brush. But don’t tell her that. The second she saw the grooming tote, she assumed the position like a diva about to take center stage. Stump of a tail wagging, butt wiggling, eyes sparkling, vibrating with the chaotic energy of a toddler who just ate three chocolate bars—she needed this. I gave her three pity brushes, praised her like she’d won Best in Show, and sent her back inside. She strutted off like a celebrity leaving a red carpet event and resumed her nap on the couch with the satisfaction of someone who knows they’re fabulous.

Next up: Shaymus. Terrier mix of mysterious origin. Part dog, part tumbleweed with legs. When we adopted him, he didn’t shed. At all. We thought, “Wow! How lucky to find another non-shedding pooch!” Turns out, he just didn’t have an undercoat because of the poor nutrition common to stray street dogs. Fast forward to now—he’s healthy, thriving, and shedding like he’s in a competition to clone himself. I brushed him for 15 minutes and produced enough hair to stuff a futon. My porch looked like a dog exploded in slow motion. There was fur in my hair, on my teeth, inside my eyeballs, in my soul. Shaymus just sat there with the smug grin of a dog who knows he’s both the problem and the prize.

And then came Gus. Gus is our livestock guardian dog: massive, goofy, and under the impression that grooming is just an extreme sport version of cuddling. The moment he saw the brush, he belly-flopped like a sack of flour with fur and rolled over dramatically, ready for what he assumed was a 90-minute belly rub. Trying to brush Gus is like grooming a beached manatee that won’t stop wiggling. Every time I made a little progress, he rolled over like a furry rotisserie chicken and smiled like, “Was this the experience you were hoping for?” I had to use one hand to brush and the other to shield my face from joyful, slobbery kisses. By the end, I smelled like dog, mud, and despair.

We finished with a mountain of hair large enough to qualify for its own zip code. Dora was still napping like royalty. Shaymus was actively shedding in the breeze. And Gus was trotting toward the newly mowed pasture to roll and color himself green.

So yes, it was grooming day. I’m wearing enough fur to be mistaken for a border collie and my dignity is somewhere under the pile of fluff on the porch. But hey—it’s all in a day’s work on the farm. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got fur in my mouth, slobber on my shirt, and a giant green dog to tackle before he gets captured by a leprechaun. Let’s roll.

Please leave a comment below. I love hearing from you.