Returned last night from four days' vacation in Chicago, got some sleep, and this morning have embarked on a struggle against pet hair. That our cats missed us is evident in their doting, rubbing, the asking for attention. My daughter brushed enough hair our of each small cat to build a Tribble. The dog, though she got plenty of attention at Mom's house, is nonetheless thrilled to see us and loses more hair when excited. Perhaps in a reference to The Windy City, strong breezes are blowing here in Syracuse rolling pet-hair tumbleweeds through the house. The sight has put me in the mood to clean.
I've swept the kitchen, first-floor hall, and dining and living rooms. I've swept the upstairs hall and each wooden tread of the stairs. I've vacuumed the den. I even picked up each kitchen chair to clean the accumulated hair on each felt bottom. It felt good to have cleaned the house of pet hair. I scratched "sweep and vacuum" from my to-do list and smiled.
Then a pet-hair tumbleweed blew across the floor.
Harry Chapin sang, "it's got to be the going, not the getting there, that's good." I'm pretty sure the only ending in life is death, something toward which I'm in no hurry. Oh, and even if I wanted to, the rest of the family would get rid of me if I got rid of the pets.
I can sweep, vacuum, but the pet hair will still tumble across our floors. Just now another clump blew up against the refrigerator. Still, I feel good having cleaned a bit. The dog is lying here beside me. The day is cool and breezy. I'm home after a good trip and I'm enjoying this hairy ride, drifting along with the tumbling tumbleweeds.