Let Go And Let Dog

"I shed therefore I am."

Here a pile, there a pile, everywhere a pile of black doggy hair. It's shedding season at the home of the SJG. Cute little clumps of Sir Blakey collect by the front door and the stairs, under the kitchen table and bar stools, beneath the sofas he has marked as "MINE." I sweep and sweep and before I've even put the broom away, more clumps have congregated, forming their own shrine to the Royal Rescue Pup of Questionable Lineage. Once again, I must Let Go and Let Dog. I must admit I can't control my dog's seasonal shedding ritual. I must learn from his shedding and let go of my own opposition to dander. I must admit I'm powerless in Sir Blakey's presence. Whatever he wants, he gets. Walkies at 5 a.m.? Done. Aerobic Squirrel Chasing from 7 a.m. to 7 p.m.? Fine. The outcome isn't in my paws, it's in my dog's. My job is not to judge, but to allow Sir Blakey, lordy of the manor, to be whatever he chooses to be, which, at this time, is a Supreme Shedder. Namaste, bitches. Namaste.