The Failure of Fluff

Dancer AKA Grunk (so named for the only word she utters)

This hair-challenged sweetheart is my sister, Dancer.  She's normally a very sweet dog (well, except for puppy psycho hour, that hour in the evening between 8 and 9 when she randomly attacks everything that moves, like a tiny, crazed, drunken Irishman.)  However, as you can see... she's having a bad hair life.  She's suffering from premature female-pattern baldness, she has a tendency to be very enthusiastic about her food (which, in the case of some leftover Spaghetti-Os the other week left her looking like an Oompa Loompa, orange from ear to ear and from topknot to ladybeard), and what hair she does have tends to go 18 directions at once on a good day. 

But tonight, she managed to top herself.  I don't know how she did it, but she managed to smear feces from one end of her tail to the other and over a significant portion of her backside (and over a portion of the front room through enthusiastic butt-scootching - thank god for hardwood floors).  I ended up having to cut out the worst of it, followed by a (whisper it) B-A-T-H.  She's now wrapped up in a towel on my lap, grunking pitifully every couple of minutes or so about the indignity.  Moose and Daisy have both come up to offer their sympathies (or possibly laugh at her), but she's having none of it...