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…
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