I hate that vacuum cleaner. It stands in my closet, out of sight, and it still bothers me.
Every week or so, I’ll settle down with a book or writing project or snack or something, and that vacuum cleaner will tap tap tap at that closet door. Disturbing me. What could it want this time?
I should be responsible. I should let it out for its exercise. I really should. But the implications paralyze me. I really must make the house presentable before letting it out. All papers off the floor, all cables kicked out of the way, maybe the trash taken out. Maybe even wash all my dishes. Not a great task, that. I only have four.
But that vacuum cleaner. I hate it. It’s so persistent.
Maybe I should take it out and shoot it. Sure. Just stand it up in my back yard, get that AK-47 I have locked away, drop in a banana clip, rock and roll. I’d sure feel better, but my neighbors would think I’m off my medication again. Can’t have that.
Maybe shove it in a gunny sack and drop it in the crick nearby? Now, that’s a thought. But who knows whether it will come back up in a couple of months, all bloated and smelly, with enough fingerprints on it to convict me? Would it help if I dusted it with lime first?
I’ll just take it to the vet. It’s old, after all. Never mind that it looks new, that it’s hardly ever been used. Just tell the vet some fantasy like it’s blind, its quality of life is gone, and can you please put it out of its misery? But I’ll feel terrible about that. Who am I to order the death of another creature?
Meanwhile, the creature in my closet keeps tapping.