Pepper had long, luxurious black hair which caught and captured her poop perfectly. Using the kitchen table as a grooming station, I gave her a haircut in a style which can best be described in the days of yore as a Dorothy Hamill.
Pepper eventually died much later with her beaveresque teeth firmly clamped around one of the metal rungs of her cage. Smartly wearing my mom’s yellow dish washing gloves, handfuls of her long, black hair slowly pulled out as I tried to remove her from her cage. By mouth, she wobbily slid back down the rung of her cage in a circular direction like a possessed pole dancer.
She was like a smelly wig, mostly fur. After some struggle, I eventually used needlenose pliers to wrench her mouth open to get her off the cage.
