The Last Strand...

We used to complain constantly about Barley's fur. It was everywhere. For a shorthair dog, her undercoat was so dense and prolific it could supply a fur jacket after several brushings. Then she died, and in the subsequent months the furballs in corners and puffs on our clothing became memories of her desperate desire to herd Maria, Aleda, and me when we were hiking; of her catching birds in mid-flight; of her sitting next to me while we drove around Los Angeles in our '63 Dodge Dart sharing In-N-Out burgers; and of how she would follow Maria around, room to room, place to place, needing nothing, asking for nothing, just making sure all was okay. Now, 10 months later, still missing her like youth, we can’t find a strand of her… anywhere. What I would trade to find a patch of that once ubiquitous fluff. Here’s a pic of Barley shortly after her 20th birthday in her favorite place… her hairy bed.