It is 7 am, and I am vacuuming my apartment before work. There is something very wrong about having to do this, particularly as it is not for my benefit but for the express purpose of impressing those who will be coming later in the afternoon to view my home. The potential new renters concern me far less than the presence of their management-related companion, who may exert some influence when it comes to the future of my security deposit. It is important, I have decided, to create the impression that I have only the highest standards of cleanliness.
The rabbits are horrified. The vacuum is known in their minds as the “loud and bellowing creature of mass destruction” that invades their space and threatens to eat them at any alarming moment. It’s bad enough when the vacuum comes out during a relatively normal period of their daily routine – say during the afternoon rest or early evening activity time – but this workday morning visit is an unprecedented trauma. They are frozen into little bunny fur balls in the corners of their respective cages.
The only one who appears happy about the appearance of the vacuum is Keats. As it emerged from its closet lair, his eyes lit up and he moved toward a mirror in anticipation. The cleaner “whooshed” into action and Keats began his Ode To The Vacuum routine. As a quick warm-up, he launched into a series of “Twucky, Twucky, Twucky” comments, which were followed up with a few little “peek-a-boos” as the vacuum hovered in and out of the back-of-couch area.
I move progressively closer to the bird cages and Keats responds by moving to the front of the cage. When I finally begin cleaning around the sides and bottoms of the bird homes, he screams the highlight of his performance – “Sleigh Ride” – at the top of his little bird lungs. This continues as I move past, ignoring his hopeful biting lunges toward the side of the cage.
Keats likes to play a game with the vacuum cleaner. The game, I have learned through harsh experience, is pretty risky. It came about during the ex-husband era. While vacuuming one day, my ex was inspired to hold the end of the vacuum hose up to the bird cage, delighting Keats no end. Viciously he yelled into the open end of the appendage, waving his head up and down and feeling brave and intimidating. After that moment, he would begin screeching in anticipation whenever the vacuum drew near, and my ex or I would obligingly hold the hose up to his cage so that he could scare it away.
One day, as I went about my normal vacuuming routine, I held the hose up for Keats as usual. He began his rant of intimidation, his head bobbing in time with the threats emerging from his small beak. Suddenly, before I realized what was happening, Keats turned his head in such a way that the force of the vacuum’s suction was too much. With a “THWOOOP” his little head was plastered to the side of his cage, the evil appliance doing its best to suck him through the bars that stood between the two of them.
After a moment of shock, I pulled the hose away. Keats sat for a moment, dazed, and in a slightly questioning tone let out a little “er-eh?” He seemed unsure of the actual occurrence of the recent events. I peered closely at him, leaning toward the cage. As I did so, he spotted the hose once again. “Ahhhhhh” he yelled, opening his beak wide. “Ahhhh….” This was supposed to be my cue to hold the vacuum up to his cage so that the game could begin. There had been, I decided, enough game for that day.
Since then, I sometimes hold the vacuum toward the cage but far enough away that there is no danger of Keats being consumed by it. The arrangement seems to work relatively well for him, as he leans as far forward as he can and yells viciously toward it. Today, though, there was simply no time.
Keats has lived with me for more than 8 years. In that time, his enthusiasm for many things about his life – particularly the vacuum - has been unfailing. In fact, I believe that he gets MORE excited about the vacuum each and every time it comes out. There is something admirable about this, something that I should no doubt learn to apply to my own life. I stare down at the appliance in my hand, probing my mind to see if there is any possibility that there is buried enthusiasm for it somewhere in there. I discover a bit of it, which I realize tends to emerge when I gaze upon a freshly cleaned floor in satisfaction. Certainly it’s no match for the adoration that Keats feels for it, but it’s a start. I can work with it….
Fortunately for Keats and I, there will be many opportunities in the near future to interact with the vacuum cleaner. My property management company has been scheduling apartment viewings like mad, and I am being forced to implement a grueling cleaning schedule as a result. This is – at least for some of us – worth singing about.
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