Last week I bought a tool to defur my cat. He is shedding immensely, and this little tool is supposed to remove 90% of the loose fur. At 40 bucks, it ought to remove all his fur and make him into a Cornish Rex, IMHO, but we can’t have everything. The guy that sold it to me added as a caveat to be sure to use it outside, as it would create a windstorm of fur in the air. Good to know.
Once home, Bugs slips outside on the deck with cat and defuring device in hand. He’s gone about 10 minutes before he comes back inside with a cat that looks 5 pounds lighter.
“Wow! That thing really works! Took off gobs of hair! He still needs more though.” He drops the mildly indignant looking cat lightly on the floor, where he proceeds to saunter off to the living room window, possibly contemplating the aspersions cast upon his fur coat.
I go about my business which includes meal planning for the next week. Yesterday we had a bit of nice weather, so I decided to grill portobello mushrooms on the grill. Being extremely pleased with myself at having planned a whole weeks worth of meals, I whipped up an apple pie, before pulling out said mushrooms and coating them with olive oil and salt. Heading out to the deck, I open the grill cover in order to light the grill and see strange things waving in the breeze, attached to the grill. I stare stupidly. It takes a full a minute before I realize what they were.
TUFTS OF CAT HAIR! Remember how I feel about bugs? I’m close to the same on the subject of hair. Oh, I’m O.K. with it as long as it is attached to a head (if it’s not a head it’s attached to, then my level of discomfort gradually increases depending on the body part). But free floating hair? Grosses–me–OUT! And for good reason.
When I was growing up, and then dating my husband, my mother and my husband both noticed that if there was a hair to be had on a plate, it would be my plate. It somehow gravitates towards me like metal shavings to a magnet. It got so bad when dining out that they would come to expect me to unearth a hair somewhere in my meal (something I seem to have passed on to Roo–sorry kid!). When the three of us were in Europe, we crossed over into France, and stayed in a tiny, dumpy little hotel. Guess who’s bed had hair IN it? Well, it wasn’t my husbands, and it wasn’t my mom’s.
So the moral of the story? Broil the musrooms in the broiler, and take the cat a mile away before de-furring him.
Oh, and yes, I will eventually get to cleaning the grill.