What Kind of Dog Do You Have?

"What kind of dog do you have?"

It's a question that has come to perturb me, which may seem ridiculous, but it's so. Even when I acknowledge the question is brought on by my own actions (or lack thereof), it rubs me the wrong way. Even though I realize it's merely (usually) an attempt to be friendly, it annoys me to no end.

"What kind of dog do you have?"

Look, I realize I have dog hair on my clothes, okay? I have a shepherd. Shepherds have a lot of fur, and it drops as though they couldn't get rid of it fast enough. I hug my dog, I lay on my dog, I roll around on my floor with my dog. In other words, I pick up dog hair. It's an unrequested transfer, the movement of fur from her to me, but it's not something I'd consider avoidable. It's also not something I consider worth my time to remedy.

"What kind of dog do you have?"

My dog has full run of my house and works her way into every seat of my car. Her fur is deposited at every step, every rest, every bark or sniff or twitch. Her fur is in my bed. Her fur is on my floor. It's on all my car seats; on my doors and floors; on my dashboard. Her fur has infiltrated my closet. Her fur coats the lint roller.

Yes, I have a lint roller. That handy-dandy roll of wide masking tape that can be worked over one's body to remove the unsightly stickables—you know, like dog fur.

"What kind of dog do you have?"

I'm also not obsessive, at least not in this sense. When I take my clothes from the closet, they have dog fur on them. Sure, I can put them on and give 'em a good tape-over. Then I go to leave for work and hug my dog goodbye. Don't judge me—I kiss her on the snout, too. Every morning. Then I could re-tape, removing what I can of the dog fur just acquired. And then I'll get in my car. If it's nice out and the windows are down, it's like I'm in the vortex of my vacuum, but windows up or down, a little bit more of my dog will attach itself to me.

"What kind of dog do you have?"

She's a shepherd, alright? And I know I have her fur on me. You're not gonna win me over by pointing out my poor hygiene. You're also not gonna prove a point to me. I have a shepherd. She sheds heavily. Her fur sticks to my everything. I accepted this into my world long, long ago.

"What kind of dog do you have?"

-Dog? What do you mean? Oh, my sweater? It's angora; I don't have a dog.