Greta, my gigantic black-and-tan Rottweiler whose hair is ubiquitous in this house, is lying in the middle of the floor I want to mop. She shows no signs of moving, so I mop around her, wondering if my Pine-Sol®-scented mop will leave an outline of her large, stubborn body like a police chalk line.
“That would be an interesting thing to explain if anyone drops by for a visit,” I think to myself, then immediately realize that is a ridiculous thought. I haven’t had company for weeks, not since my recently former boyfriend walked out the door with his shaving kit tucked under one arm. It hurt mostly because all evidence of our relationship—our conversations and confessions, our friends and fights, our spent passions and affections—seemed to fit in that one little black bag.
I shake my head trying to oust any thoughts of him and suddenly feel a desperate desire to get this mopping done. My sanity seems to depend on it. But my dogs don’t care a whit. The little Jack Russell, Gigi, dashes around the room harassing the squirrels on the other side of the picture window. Greta snored, her wide back turned to me as if to say I was inconsequential to her. But housekeeping is my form of meditation, a way to think through my troubles and, especially important in this moment, take control of my life. I might not be able to keep a boyfriend, but I sure as hell can mop a damn floor.
Dust and dog hair are always present in my house, but today they seem to have invited a large, extended family to join us. Reunions of them cluster around the baseboards then dash off in all directions when I approach. If can corral just a few of them, though, I will feel better about myself and my life.
But my timing is poor. It’s that time of day when sunlight drills through my windows at angles that show every mote of dust in the air and every blemish on my scuffed and gouged wooden floors. Even though I swept before I got out the mop, clumps of them dart about just out of reach of the wet swathes I am making.
It is futile but cathartic work.
**
Night has come and I am sitting in the dark of my living room as the nervous light of my television screen flickers a kinder light that helps obscure the imperfections in my housekeeping and life. I can’t see even a hint of Greta’s outline on the floor and all is quiet, even Gigi, who has finally exhausted herself and is now sleeping curled next to me making it clear she will touch me but I am not to touch her. I like that about her--her ability to seek connection without being possessed.
Greta shuffles over to me and lays her chin on my knee holding my gaze with her own age-clouded eyes. I rub her head and ears, scratch under her chin, and lean my face into her neck. I inhale her earthy, warm, and sweetly familiar scent, so much the lingering smell of a loved one on my pillow.
She makes throaty sounds that suggest she had something to say and she is clearing her throat to say it. She gives me a long, meaningful look then lets out a short, commanding “wuff” as if to say that everything will be okay. And as she does, a puff of fur escapes into the air from her abundant undercoat.
It is never ending, this cleaning of the home and heart, but I must think of it as job security.
— Katjack
“That would be an interesting thing to explain if anyone drops by for a visit,” I think to myself, then immediately realize that is a ridiculous thought. I haven’t had company for weeks, not since my recently former boyfriend walked out the door with his shaving kit tucked under one arm. It hurt mostly because all evidence of our relationship—our conversations and confessions, our friends and fights, our spent passions and affections—seemed to fit in that one little black bag.
I shake my head trying to oust any thoughts of him and suddenly feel a desperate desire to get this mopping done. My sanity seems to depend on it. But my dogs don’t care a whit. The little Jack Russell, Gigi, dashes around the room harassing the squirrels on the other side of the picture window. Greta snored, her wide back turned to me as if to say I was inconsequential to her. But housekeeping is my form of meditation, a way to think through my troubles and, especially important in this moment, take control of my life. I might not be able to keep a boyfriend, but I sure as hell can mop a damn floor.
Dust and dog hair are always present in my house, but today they seem to have invited a large, extended family to join us. Reunions of them cluster around the baseboards then dash off in all directions when I approach. If can corral just a few of them, though, I will feel better about myself and my life.
But my timing is poor. It’s that time of day when sunlight drills through my windows at angles that show every mote of dust in the air and every blemish on my scuffed and gouged wooden floors. Even though I swept before I got out the mop, clumps of them dart about just out of reach of the wet swathes I am making.
It is futile but cathartic work.
**
Night has come and I am sitting in the dark of my living room as the nervous light of my television screen flickers a kinder light that helps obscure the imperfections in my housekeeping and life. I can’t see even a hint of Greta’s outline on the floor and all is quiet, even Gigi, who has finally exhausted herself and is now sleeping curled next to me making it clear she will touch me but I am not to touch her. I like that about her--her ability to seek connection without being possessed.
Greta shuffles over to me and lays her chin on my knee holding my gaze with her own age-clouded eyes. I rub her head and ears, scratch under her chin, and lean my face into her neck. I inhale her earthy, warm, and sweetly familiar scent, so much the lingering smell of a loved one on my pillow.
She makes throaty sounds that suggest she had something to say and she is clearing her throat to say it. She gives me a long, meaningful look then lets out a short, commanding “wuff” as if to say that everything will be okay. And as she does, a puff of fur escapes into the air from her abundant undercoat.
It is never ending, this cleaning of the home and heart, but I must think of it as job security.
— Katjack
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