Shedding Season

A clump of Dusty heads down the highway

Summertime, summertime, sum-sum-summertime means many things to many peeps:  Tall glasses of spiked lemonade. Barbecues.  Regrettable Bathing Suits.  Broken promises to lose weight.  In the home of the SJG, summertime means all this and more.  Over here, it's Shedding Season.  Piles and piles of dog hair clumping here, there and everywhere.  Under the table.  Under the couch.  Under the stairs.  Under the door.  I sweep up the evidence and God laughs.  Ha, ha.  Nice try.  Check under the chair.  There's more. Dusty just can't help himself.  It's beyond his control.  Every day, he breaks out the Snoopy-style song and dance.  "Gotta shed!  Gotta shed!  Got to shed!"  One morning, I expect to come downstairs and find a newly-formed Dusty clone.  Dusty Part II.  Another barker, another sock thief, another food swiper.  The product of some evolutionary quirk.  Till then, I'll keep sweeping, and he'll keep shedding.  It's what he does.  He's good at it.