The story goes like this: Paisley was a dog of abundant hair. When he ran, his hair billowed around him in wispy clouds of ethereal beauty. When he reclined, his hair fell gently around him, cascading in gentle rivulets of opalescent decadence. When he shedded, his hair clustered in galloping hordes of massive dust bison and thronged into the corners of every room in the human habitation. There were no dust "bunnies" here. FarmWife could brush him 'til the cows came home, but still he shed massive amounts of undercoat everywhere he went.
Well, FarmWife went on a vacation for a week and when she came back home poor Paisley had developed a stress-related rash on his tummy and chin. She washed and dried him, but his skin was still moist and red. She resorted to scissors.
FarmWife's initial reason for robbing Paisley of his voluptuous fur robes was selfless—to dry out his rash, and allow for ventilation and medication of the affected area (it's healed now, thanks). Her motives have shifted, however, and now she dreams of a fur-free future. She plans to keep him clipped for as long as the outside temperatures will allow. Can you guess why? It is for reasons of housewifery.
News flash: There is no more fur in her house! The daily sweeping is as easy as pie! A scan of the corners of FarmWife's home now reveals trifles—a wood splinter here, a rubberband there, and a cat hair or two for added interest. The giant white and gray mounds of follicular detritus are absent, and noticeably so. It is a new world.
Now, FarmWife must set herself the task of finding some proper dog clippers. Paisley's new 'do was managed with scissors alone, and it's as choppy as can be. If I wasn't afraid of anthropomorphizing, I'd say the lad was embarrassed.
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