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Once upon a time, and long after my brief goth years were over, black was a wardrobe staple. Elegant, slimming, practical; black is a classic choice for the tired mum with no energy for fashion but a deep desire to hide the wobbly bits and bolognese stains….
And then I got a yellow Labrador.
Now, I own no black clothing. I own clothing that used to be black. I own clothing that is now a patchwork of beige dog hair, biscuit dust and what I sincerely hope isn’t fox poo.
Because here’s the thing no one* (*everyone, but you ignore them, because cute) tells you when you get a lab:
They shed.
Constantly. Aggressively. Like it’s their full-time job.
Owning a Labrador is about 10% companionship, 10% being stared at and guilt tripped while eating, and 80% vacuuming.
I could knit three extra dogs from what I get off Izzy with the Furminator (great bit of kit) every damn day and she’s still the hairiest beast known to man.
I have bought those Ikea lint rollers in bulk and stashed them in every room with the confidence of someone who thinks they can win. I cannot.
Trying to keep on top of it all is trying to fight a hurricane with a hairbrush. No matter how many strips you peel off, your clothes still look like you wrestled a particularly needy teddy bear.
The carpet scrapers (two for a fiver from Amazon) are a little better; I have three of them strategically placed throughout the house, but it still feels like fighting a losing battle. No sooner have you discarded the scrapings then POOF – a dog hair explosion.
The lab owners’ pre-going out ritual
- Get dressed in your nice black outfit, with complementary accessories of course.
- Greet your dog, who is now inside your trousers somehow.
- Try to brush off the hair. That doesn’t work.
- Give yourself a thorough going over with a lint roller.
- Spend the journey there picking hair off yourself.
- Apologise to friends for the state of your clothes – especially the one with a fur allergy.
And it isn’t just clothes…
Oh no. The carpets are a lighter shade than they were, even with three robot vacuum cleaners in pretty much constant rotation and full, every day.
The sofa (which she’s not meant to go on)? Covered. My car? A fur buffet. My freshly washed bed sheets? Somehow, she’s been on them. Even if the door was closed. And she isn’t even allowed upstairs.
It’s relentless. You invite a lab into your home, you open your handbag and find dog hair in your lip gloss. You find it on the kitchen surfaces. In your pint of squash. You find it in your bra. You breathe in sharply and choke on airborne fur.
At this point, you’re basically 40% Labrador.
The final acceptance
You stop fighting it. You start choosing clothes and furnishings that camouflage the hair. Taupe. Beige. Mustard. “Golden shed blend.”
I didn’t get a camel coloured coat for fashion reasons, oh no.
I have accepted my lot in life. I have become one with the fluff.
Black clothing was nice while it lasted.
But you know what’s better?
The welcome you get when you come home.
The nose nudge when you’re sad. The paws on your shoulder when you’re trying to concentrate on work and the look that says ‘it’s time to play and I don’t give a shit what you’re in the middle of’.
The fact she knows the word biscuit in three languages (but roundly ignores her own name).
So fine. I’ll wear beige forever.
But I’ll be covered in love.
(But mostly just dog fur).