Last night I took a path less traveled, and it was marked with indifference.
I went around behind my basement recliner to turn on a floor lamp. The Pony usually does this for me. His method is to extend his long arms that sit atop his coltish legs, across the back of my recliner, until he grabs the jointed neck of that lamp. Which often results in my chair being moved, or the lamp light shining askew. As he does this, I go in the other direction and turn off the overhead light. Since The Pony was unavailable, I walked directly to the floor lamp. In the light of both it and the overhead, between the pool table and the backs of the furniture facing the big-screen TV, I encountered the Holy Moly Trinity.
There, on the floor, were three brown spots. They were darker than the pebbled pattern of the tan floor tiles. I tried not to look too closely. That often seems to create more work for me, myself, and I. But they were unavoidable. I was not wearing my long-distance glasses used for maneuvering T-Hoe through the teeming masses who travel the byways of Hillmomba. Nor was I wearing my bifocals that allow me to fill my noggin with quotes from classic literature.
I bent over. They were within three feet of each other. I shall list them in order of least embarrassing to most horrific.
A crumpled-up wrapper from a Great Value caramel cup, sold by the generic bag at The Devil's Playground. The Pony loves them, and I have been known to consume them on occasion. We keep a bag in the basement mini-fridge.
A squashed Junior Mint. We have not had Junior Mints in the Mansion in a coon's age. The last known Junior Mints were seen in my movie purse a couple of years ago. Short of Kramer dropping one while observing some kind of clandestine surgery in my basement, I have no idea how it got there. The squashing no doubt came from the boot of Farmer H, on one of his sorties to find stuff of mine to give away to passing acquaintances at work. The Pony is mainly unshod inside the Mansion, and I in my worn-down Crocs would feel it underfoot like a princess feels a pea.
A dead spider on its back with all eight legs curled up in a death throe. For the love of Gummi Mary, people! When you assassinate an arachnid, dispose of the ding dang body!
I really don't know what to make of this discovery. Perhaps it points to slovenly housekeeping on my part. But at least you know that we are not hoarders. Because you could see the floor, people! You could see the floor under the Holy Moly Trinity.
4 comments:
If you had an inside dog, you'd never have that problem. They'd eat the dead spider in their excitement to get the wrapper and the motherlode--the Junior Mint.
Because we have Foley, we have absolutely NO food crumbs on the floor. If I could just figure how to make his own shed fur seem irresistable to him, I'd never need to sweep or mop again.
Sioux,
Too bad you can't drop a blob of tasty, fast-hardening nougat on the piles of fur, thus creating Dog-Fur Haystacks.
My three dogs are like vacuum cleaners under the table and in the kitchen. I think I could rake sawdust onto the floor from the kitchen counter and they would gobble it up as fast as they could in an attempt to make sure they get their fair share. They are competitive like that.
Kathy,
My dogs agree with you and Sioux. They think they should be inside dogs. At least the have the common decency to stand outside and poke their heads in. Longingly. And don't just run in like the cat.
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