The answer my friend, is blowing in the wind..

Spring means different things to all of us.  For some it conveys gentle images of daffodils, blue bells, and other flowers shimmering and flowing in gentle arrays above the verdant new grass of the season.  For others it means golf, tennis, and other outdoor sports are calling them out of bed on a Saturday.  For many it signals the time of ease is coming, snow plows put away, mud drying up and trees shaking loose their winter held leaves.  The promise of long days, slow setting sun, and purple hued night-falls signals emergence of toes from winter shoes, disregard of socks, and knees unfolding under newly purchased shorts.  The landscape for many is dotted with the caught breath wonder of childhood as new growth erupts daily.  One soft, still moment to contemplate the wonders of spring for other people, and then I’m back to moving on down the line.

There is a line drawn in the sand when spring erupts here in a riotous profusion of colors.  White, beige, brown, chocolate, rose, black, and ginger are the dominant colors here at The Last Refuge as spring liberates massive quantities of hair into the atmosphere to float unobstructed onto floors, walls, clothes, fields, up my nose, and in my eyes.  Meals are garnished with it; drinks gaily float whole strands of it on icy pallets.  Hairballs chase the dust bunnies and all carpets are tweeds from it.  On one side of the line stand multiple hair-shedding horses, dogs, cats, and goats.  On the other side is a frantic mortal, wishing I had the multiple arms of an Indian Goddess to wield vacuum, dust mop, curry comb, hairbrush, and antihistamines.

I have several Labs here, and they blow their coat in the spring.  Blow their coat; that is a nice euphemistic term for every ounce of that soft, fine undercoat being liberated into the waiting air and over any surface within a hundred yards.  Compound this with the addition of boxer hair, the terror of terrier tresses, and assorted other canine coiffures disintegrating around me to arrive at an ambient atmosphere of nostril distress inside.

Vacuuming my way toward the more forgiving outdoors, I am faced with massive, wind blown waves of horse and donkey hair.  If Labs blow their coats, equine erupt theirs. Shedding downward, the hair settles in felted clumps dangling from their bellies, demanding to be brushed off immediately.  I set to with brush and comb, liberating enough hair to reupholster three couches and supply all the waiting birds with copious enough supplies for lining nests to create mansions dangling precariously from weight bent branches.  Finishing one horse, I look up to face a waiting line of them all pushing to be next.  I clamber out of the pile of discarded hair and move on down the line to the next.

I understand I can gather the hair and spin it into yarn, stuff pillows with it, or even weave a rug.  I think I will settle for making the tissue company rich, developing massive muscles in my shoulders from repetitive movements, and being the drug company’s favorite guinea pig for testing new and improved allergy pills.  I’ll just put Bob Dylan’s “Blowing In The Wind” on, go rescue the cat from the pile of hair he’s disappearing into, and get out the Sippy cups from winter storage.