grooming empathy

Our dog Reuben is a hairy beast. He is a basset hound mix, and part of that mix is some sort of giant cotton plant, or maybe just a German Shepherd. Quarterly, giant black puffballs of downy fuzz start appearing on our rugs, furniture, floor... and faces. He sheds this undercoat like nothing I've ever seen before. It is that time of the year. So we must do something he hates: brush him. A lot.

I took the Furminator and the slicker brush to him this morning while Chuck held him by the collar. Caroline "helped" -- mostly by spilling the grocery bag full of hair all over the floor. As I brushed, Reuben groaned and "mrph"ed like basset hounds are prone to do. It's akin to how I imagine a duet featuring a walrus and Chewbacca. Pleasant.

I was almost done brushing the unhappy Reub, and he groaned loudly and tried to run away. Caroline patted him on the head, and said, "I know. I know, boy. She does it to me every morning."