The Featherstorm

My first thought upon waking this morning was, How odd, it's snowed inside. Still mostly asleep, I had some trouble putting it together but soon realized that the snow was the stuffing from the comforter and that it was everywhere. I raised up and looked around and saw the black dog at the end of the bed, covered with bits of white and I'm positive she was grinning from ear to ear. I threw back the covers and a fluffy hailstorm of white flew into the air - it was on the pillows and the rug and the floor, in my hair and on the cats and the small brown dog. In a matter of seconds I discovered the edge of the comforter chewed open and spilling it's contents like a dandelion in a strong breeze. The black dog, destructive but not stupid, eased herself off the bed and trotted to the den and the safety of underneath the coffee table. I thought, I could kill her and no one would ever know, an impractical but recurring idea that appealed to me at that moment.

I walked to the kitchen with the small brown dog, sneezing and shaking off stuffing, at my heels. From beneath the shelter of the coffee table, the black dog gave me a wary look but came when called albeit slowly and crawling on her belly apologetically. I did not buy this act and scolded her severely before setting them both outside and they flew to the door in haze of white, leaving a trail of stuffing like breadcrumbs across the carpet and floor. The cats began their morning demands for breakfast and with a sigh I collected their dishes, rinsed out the stuffing, and fed them. Every movement seemed to set off another minor snowstorm of fluff and it had penetrated to each room, everywhere I looked was misted with it. I spent hours cleaning it up - it seemed to have reserves and no sooner did I vacuum it all up then another layer would appear in the very same place. I was awash in feathers and the harder I worked the angrier I became.

I had hoped she was over this stage in her development and that her 8th year might bring some mellowness but clearly I have been premature. I'm reminded that it took my first Schipperke 16 years and a stroke before he calmed down. People ask why I tolerate it and I have no easy or reasonable answer aside from the fact that I still love her. She will lay beside me at night, head on the pillow, and look at me with her brown eyes and I forgive her anything. Love makes us all idiots.