Usually the Great Annual Bearcut is scheduled for early October, [ after the worst of the sub-zero overnights and before the hot sets in ] but we’ve been having spectacularly weird Spring weather, so this week was the first chance to ring up Bear’s
torturer hairstylist for an appointment.
Today’s the day.
Someone is unimpressed. But it’s not an aesthetic choice. Some of the prevalent grasses have seeds that are wicked, wicked things, capable of snagging onto, and burying themselves into, almost anything. Of course the Aussie Summer heat is a factor too, but really, it’s all about the damn grass seeds.
Someone has worked out what’s afoot, and is cowering in my [unmade] bed … which, given that is his usual hidey-hole, not really an effective means of escape and he slinks out to the car like a Bear condemned.
After two hours of pampering and perfuming:
you might be forgiven for thinking that I’ve been given the wrong dawg, but it is,indeed, my little Bear-y man, now showing at least a nominal resemblance to his wee little mini foxie mum.