When the Dust Bunnies took over the hallway, I was, admittedly, concerned. It's always been an uneasy truce between us. They know it. I know it. They resent what they see as my imperialist policies. I resent how they identify themselves as indigenous to the land, and, therefore, somehow worthy of the hard-won frontier that I call my living room.
I fight them back with all the technology I can muster, and, as soon as I'm done, they start marshaling their forces. Quietly, unobtrusively, they take over the corners, the spaces behind doors, the breezeways, until, all of the sudden, I realize they have the dog--cursed as she is with short legs--by the throat.
Then the truce is broken once more. I get out Mr. Hoover, and, with all the shock and awe I have at my disposal, I suck the living daylights out of them.
But the tables have turned, my friends. As is so often the case, their David has bested my Goliath. I'm talking about my Vacuum cleaner. I shoved that puppy right under my daughter's bed, and what do you think happened? With a broken, beaten moan, it expelled a burning metalic smell, and then it died.
I looked around me. The dog stood outside the room, too afraid to even lick my foot. As for the children, well, the children barely blinked an eye. Ah, the innocence of youth. Little do they know: One day it will be their dog. One day it will be their Vacuum cleaner. You can build a better vacuum, but the dust bunnies always win, my friend. In the end, the dust bunnies always win.
R.I.P. My Kenmore Power-Mate . You did your best, and that's all anyone can do.