A_Span concedes that, as far as the ass goes, it is nigh on hopeless. In fact, it's probably futile as far as the whole back side is concerned. This is not a question of body shape-or-size related despair. In an instant, I had been overcome by a deep aversion to the sight the of pet hair. A lot of pet hair. Not where it belongs, as fur, on the pets. But everywhere, and I was brought down most especially by the sight of it on my clothing.
An acquaintancy-sort-of-person was once wearing a fleece pullover so unsightly that A_Span diverged from a longstanding habit, borne of painful faux pas, of not commenting on other people's attire. Here, it was clearly a breach of etiquette to inquire why a person would willingly don such an ugly dog's breakfast of a raiment. But a slight chin tilt in its direction returned the information that its ugliness was the perfect disguise for pet hair. She had some superabundance of dogs--three? eight? nine?-- so that one would have thought an errant pet hairshirt was the very least of her problems.
There's vague memories of various efforts in years past to prevent/resist the adhesion. In other words, not being totally blind or immune to it. But it's possible that, for awhile now, life just got too fucking much to give a shite about it. Could be that would be a better state of being than fairly clutching a roll of cheap masking tape everywhere one goes in the house (although it is kind of one of those soothments recently alluded to). It's just that one feels sort of an ass to be craning one's neck around to roll the tape around to catch up the new hairs acquired since sitting down 1 hour and 12 minutes before. It conjures up a very discomfiting resemblance to an image of T_Cat suddenly halting, dropping his hindquarters, raising a back leg and contorting his frame to satisfy the urgent need to lick his butt.
A_Span had picked up the very smart phone and called The Oracle for wisdom, and magic if need be, in driving off this plague. There was a clamouring of voices, all inclined to wailing and bemoaning of their fates, driven to gnashing of teeth and rending of similarly afflicted garments. In my state of new-found horror, I suppose there was a certain comfort in that. But that beseeching was as nothing to the thunderbooming of commands and shrill remonstrances echoing in etherspace, where anything but the vacuum is abhorrent. Who knew that millions, billions, trillions of dollars on communication infrastructure would deliver us into a realm populated by phalanxes of Helpful Heloises and Mr. Fixits? (Not to adhere to gender roles but that does seem to be the way The Oracle works.) Thank you, ARPANET.
For some, it isn't just their own pets' shedding gifts. They get astonishingly bent out of shape at the notion that heretics might be reprehensibly accepting airborne pet hair as part of the honour in sharing space with beings every bit as graceful as A_Cat, as joyous as R_Dog. To solve the problem, one should love neither the sinner nor the sin. Cast that which offends out of the home! Case closed.
Plan B: Put down or step away from the screen and start vacuuming. Don't ever stop. If the pets won't leave of their own volition at this monster entering the home thrice daily, then try vacuuming the animals themselves.
Vacuum a cat? To be clear, the previous phrase was: Vacuum a cat. A_Span was rendered speechless for a time. Are these high priests fit to own household appliances?
The pets stubbornly not fleeing at the sight of you? Still masochistically seeking, despite already feeling unclean for having started all this in the first place? Then there are plenty of howto-bers enthusiastic about attracting followers in their own fervent quests for true enlightenment. Never wear black. Don't wear fleece. Cover the furniture. Whisk furniture covers away when visitors arrive and whip them back on before the sound of departing footfalls fades away. Give up and replace furniture with leather furniture. Stay cheerful, but probably don't get too comfortable. Note that these quests are never-ending.
A_Span is not judging. A day and a half was given over to this research. Hopes were raised. Methods were tried. Vinegar was purchased. A gallon of already purchased vinegar was discovered on the shelf, missing exactly that amount which would have been employed in some other sure-fire cleaning solution. Spirits fell. The only nugget to really stick was the thing about cheap duct tape, pulled back around the roll one circumference at a time.
A_Span's foray into this sharing circle: cheap masking tape. Seems to remove fewer fabric fibers and is way better than expensive masking tape as proffered on those elegantly plastic-handled jobbies. Uhm, lint rollers. Thank you menopause.
Plus also, never look back.