Hair of the dog

There is a saying among owners of German Shepherd Dogs that they only moult once a year - all year. My socks and floors are certainly testament to that truth. But the general uncontrollable riotous abundance of spring brings a step-change as much in coat shedding as it does in blossom blooming and drifts of hair lie everywhere indoors just as the tiny petals from the blackthorn tree carpet the ground outside my window.

Dogs are not in the least self-aware and Kaos is oblivious to the tatty matted tufts that protrude from his hind quarters and look like an ill-made wig from the cash strapped props department of a repertory theatre company. He regards me only with baleful and slightly offended eyes if I pull out a clump, preferring to retain his grumbles for the attentions of the spiky grooming brush. But that brushing game is futile for the bristles and the spines soon clog with hair as the arteries of the butter lover clot with cream.

Walking on the promenade this morning, I took the opportunity to grab a few handfuls of moult whilst his attention was diverted by the remains of a plastic pot of shop-made tuna pasta mix discarded underneath a bench. The hair came out easily and tumbled away along the beach to the great fluff collector in the sky. I cannot help but wonder if nesting birds seize upon this bounty and weave it into their nests among the sticks and straws so as to welcome their chicks into the world in fully carpeted luxury. I'd like to think that somewhere an acquisitive magpie or squalling black headed gull is collecting and creating the Rolls Royce of nests, complete with flocked wallpaper and dog hair eiderdown.

For all I pluck and tweeze and brush him, the dog never appears any less hairy than he was before. No bald patches, no age-related thinning, no subtly disguised comb-over spots or architectural hair pieces. Perhaps our human grooming obsessions are the paradoxical price we pay for our own self-awareness. We colour and trim and cut and style, shampoo and condition and pamper and tease our hair to the drum beat of ever diminishing returns our whole life long. The dog, who doesn't notice, never goes bald and sails through his bad hair days without as much as a shrug.