Memories and Dog Hair

Kenzie Barkac

Creative Nonfiction

I have had many siblings throughout my life, many of whom I have outlived. Stanley, stubborn and energetic, had coarse white hair while Thurman had a light brown coat and was gentle with kind eyes that made you melt. While I loved both dogs, Thurman and I were inseparable. Every time I sat down to draw or play with my stuffed animals, he would sprawl across my bed, watching me contentedly before dozing off. His snores were thunderous, and not much could wake him except for the sound of my mom calling, “Dinner time!” down the hall. We would leap from the bed in one swift movement, struggling to gain balance amidst the entanglement of our limbs. I always beat him to the door, but he was close on my heels, pausing only to stretch and shake out his muscles, sending tufts of brown hair all over the room. Thurman and I spent many summer days playing fetch in the backyard and biking through the neighborhood, his leash tied to my handlebars. With him, I never felt like an only child. 

In my teenage years, we added four new paws to the family. Mimi was a bossy, bigheaded pitbull who had a mind of her own and challenged me in every way. She slobbered on almost everything and left little white hairs everywhere she went. I remember leaving for school every morning overcome with frustration as I struggled to dust off the heaps of hair sticking to my clothes like Velcro, only to swing the car door open to black seats speckled with millions of white hairs. By the door, we hung a lint roller that was changed out almost daily. While my mom spent many hours wrestling a vacuum across the rug or its hose in between the couch cushions, dog hair ran our life, and at some point, we all just accepted it.

Dog hair ran our life, and at some point, we all just accepted it.

I moved into my own apartment at the age of nineteen. Although it may have surprised some, my parents were completely unfazed when I brought a small black fuzzball over to the family barbeque less than a month after moving out. Dogs were the only siblings I had ever known, and the concept of living in a house without one seemed like a lousy way to make a home. Mowgli was a constant in my life for the next eight years. While I moved into new apartments, faced challenges, and grew, he provided silent support all along the way. My now-husband Kaleb knew he might not have stayed in my life for long if he hadn’t gotten Mowgli’s approval when they first met. Kaleb wasn’t an animal person before me, and even though he and Mowgli hit it off immediately, he did not view animals as family members like I do. The first time Mowgli ever jumped into Kaleb’s car, Kaleb sighed and looked at me with pure annoyance. “You get to vacuum out my car,” he said. Little did he know that he, too, would someday accept this small annoyance as just another part of life.

The problem with having dogs as family members is that you almost always outlive them. One day you’re cuddled up on the couch with them watching a movie, shaking the dog hair out of the blanket before settling in, and the next you’re sifting through your clothes when a single strand of hair falls from an old sweatshirt, sending you into a whirlwind of memories. Because I have outlived most of my siblings, I have come to love the dog hair that covers every surface of my house and follows me everywhere I go. It doesn’t annoy me anymore. I know that someday my dogs’ time will have come and gone, and I’ll be left with nothing but memories and dog hair.

Kenzie Barkac is a sophomore double-majoring in psychology and creative writing. She is from Doylestown, Pennsylvania; trained her dog to be a certified therapy dog; and recently attained her scuba diving license. She hopes to swim with sharks soon.