So, I'm just settling onto the guest room bed after a long, drippy walk in the Hunnewell woods. I'm all stretched out, cooling off. You think I could get some shuteye? Nope, because here comes Mom with her vacuum!
Next, I head to my white shag beanbag, the perfect place to cuddle. Mom decides it's long past time to scoop up my pawprints in the study. While she's at it, she'll dust off the books. Then, she tries to dust off me.
That's an exaggeration, but practically speaking, it's pretty close. Mom believes vacuuming every possible surface is the ultimate way to cleanliness. Constantly. I mean, if Tiger Woods could characterize his misbehavior as an addiction, extreme vacuuming definitely earns a place in the compendium of personality disorders.
I believe that this syndrome, Obsessive Compulsive Hoovering, is genetic. Grandma used to wake up her sleepy teens by vacuuming, and when they were on the phone too long, the extension was duly dusted as well. Mom was so shocked that her friend didn't have a vacuum that she quickly donated one of her many extras. There's one for the car, one for the basement, etc., etc.
Fortunately, though the amount of vacuuming seems endless, I have not exhausted the vast number of sleeping places in my domain. I'll just have to keep moving, that's all. Faster than Mom.
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