By dawn I have the vacuum out,
By tea-time, its revolting,
I know the season’s on the change…
Because the dog is moulting.
She does this to me twice a year,
Though neither of us choose it,
She sheds her fur both high and low
And meanwhile, I just lose it.
There’s furballs rolling down the hall
And wafting through the air,
The bathroom’s coated with the stuff
Though she won’t go in there.
You wouldn’t think I clean at all
To see the furballs flying,
Though, honestly, I guarantee,
It’s not for want of trying.
I vac and sweep and use the mop
Or get down on my knees,
The small dog follows, shedding, says,
“It itches worse than fleas…”
She needs a decent grooming
But I’d have to run to catch her,
And with a dodgy back I know
At present, I can’t match her.
And so we wait for summer’s end
And for the moult to stop,
And though it isn’t any use
I sweep until I drop.
The small dog doesn’t care at all
Apart from getting itchy,
She seems to think when I complain
That I’m just being bitchy.
I tell her that for human-folk
That isn’t quite polite.
She scratches, looks me up and down
And says, “Then it’s just right.”