It was the dog hair that defined for me that I was, in fact, in a relationship.
Mind you, the fact that we’ve spent almost all our free time together should have been a tip off. And the fact that we’ve met each others families is generally a good sign. And there was that whole trading keys business. But those pale in comparison to the sheer amount of dog hair to be found clinging to my life.
To be clear, I do not own a dog.
There’s dog hair on my toothbrush and my pillow. Inside my shoes and on the bathroom sink. I’m pretty sure it’s in my car and probably in or on all the food I consume.
This sheer volume of shedded evidence makes it impossible to deny.
You see, my life is now covered in dog hair because he is covered in dog hair. And our lives are intertwining, as are our lint brushes.