flying fur

Tigra's begun shedding her winter coat. Actually, she sheds all year long, but it's only with the arrival of warm weather that I fear being buried by an avalanche of fur. Do you remember A Charlie Brown Christmas and the pathetic little Christmas tree that Charlie Brown brings home? The tree is shedding pine needles the whole way and there's one scene in which--whoosh--the remaining needles suddenly fall off in one fell swoop and there's just a spiney skeleton left behind. In between brushing the relentless fur off my clothes, I might worry that Tigra would be subject to a similar fate. Could I be left with a spiney skeleton of a cat? But, no, like manna in the desert, Tigra's fur is always replenished.

I never really gave much thought to the origin of the phrase "the fur was flying" until I got a cat. Or, more specifically, until I took my cat to the vet. There's nothing quite like riding in a Turkish taxi with an unhappy cat who's just had her temperature taken rectally and is rapidly disrobing.