TO DUST BUNNIES, AND OTHER FURRY CRITTERS

TO DUST BUNNIES, AND OTHER FURRY CRITTERS(Susan Joyner-Stumpf) TO DUST BUNNIES,
AND OTHER FURRY CRITTERS


What are they, anyway? Well, Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia on the Internet, describes them as so:

Dust bunnies (often one word, dust bunnies) are little clumps of fluff that form under furniture and in corners that are not cleaned regularly. They are made of hair, lint, dead skin, dust, and sometimes light rubbish and debris, and are held together by static electricity and felt-like-entanglement. In British English, dust bunnies are sometimes called beggar's velvet.[1]

The footnote tell us:

1. ^ Old Cheshire Dialect. cheshirelittlefolk.co.uk.

Was there an invasion from Europe we weren’t made aware of, did the British send us these so called “beggar’s velvet?” Take them back, take them back, oh Merry England! And now, on top of everything else, besides having whichamacallits in my house and that’s stressful enough, right? Wikipedia is going to tell me that I’m a slob and don’t clean my house regularly, so now on top of everything, I get insulted.

And what’s this? Dead skin? Was someone murdered in my house and I didn’t know about it? Or is someone trying to tell me I shed like my dog, except not fur? I’m doubly insulted now.

No matter what I do, I can’t seem to get rid of the damn things. And, newsflash to you, Wikipedia, Wikiki, Wykovia, however you pronounce your stupid name (sounds like some place in Hawaii), I do clean my house and how dare you insinuate “I don’t clean regularly.” When is the last time you waxed your own floors? Got down on your hands and knees and polished the baseboards? Yeah, that’s right, you, Wkiovaipi or whatever the heck your name is. I’m not saying I’m Martha Stewart or Susie Homemaker; I’m not even saying I’d care for you to eat off my floors. But no one, especially an inanimate object, is going to tell me I don’t keep a clean house. Talk about living in glass houses, where do you live? In open Cyberspace where cosmic dust is everywhere ….ah huh, so watch what you say!

Anyway, back to these dust bunnies or whatever alien thing attacking us we don’t know about and the Government is keeping from us. So I’m underneath the couch, right, with this big-ass Oreck Vacuum Cleaner that weighs more than I do with one of those attachment thing-a-majigies especially made to “get under those fine, hard-to-reach places.” What’s so fine about a hard-to-reach place? I wanna know that too. I have so many questions, very few answers around here. I’d getting side-tracked. Must be the dust bunnies getting to me. (sneeze). Yep. Something is getting to me. (sneeze) (sneeze). Alright, this is getting ridiculous. Where’s my Claritin? Knowing my luck, it says on the outside of the box, “FDA does not guarantee this product to help in the case of dust bunnie overload.” Right. Go figure ~

Okay, where was I before the sneezing coronary? Oh yeah, so I’m underneath the couch and I could have sworn I saw one of my cats that has been missing for months. Well, anyway, it had whiskers and ears and I’m not acutely aware of any dust bunnies with those, are you? Unless I’m staring at a big-ass rat. Maybe it’s a dust rat. Is there such a thing? Questions, questions. Who do I call? Center for Disease Control? “Oh listen here, please good people, I have dust rats. Can you help me? How do I get rid of them?” What? You hung up on ME? I asked how to get rid of the dust rats, not me, you jerk!

(sneeze). Help. I’ve fallen and I can’t breathe and I can’t get up ~ I’m being attacked by the Dust Bunnie Monster. Alright, okay, its not funny. Just humor me here. I’m the one under the couch facing something with whiskers and it’s not my cat ‘cause now I see him inside the hall planter pretending it’s his litter box. So, now, my question is, what is staring at me that has giant whiskers?

No time to talk. I’m a woman of action. So I turn the damn thingy on high-speed. It about sucks off my shirt, forget about any dust rats or bunnies. Whoo-hooo. That felt funny. Kinda weird and funky. Felt like I was being sucked into a Vacuum. (You were, you stupid blonde). Okay, time to get serious now. Put the nozzle under the couch, suck up that thing with whiskers. Close my eyes tight, hope it doesn’t squeal too loud for the kids outside to hear. I’d hate to explain that one to the toddlers. “Mommie, mommie, you killed a bunny. Why ya did dhat, mommie? Why, why, why?”

“Mommy didn’t mean too, my little darlings. My little precious ones. Mommy was tired of being called a no-good, good-for-nothing housekeeper by ….oh forget it!” Okay. Its cool. Nothing squealed. Open your eyes. Look. No gory blood or anything like from a Steven King , Saw II, or Twilight Zone movie. Yet. Or Ghost Hunters. That’s it. Dust bunnies are orbs. I just sucked up a ghost. What if it was grandma? Oh God, granny, I’m sorry. (sneeze). I’ll get ya outta there, I promise . . .

Silence. Okay. All is well on the Western Front. So far. Eyes open wider. My heart pulse slows down, just a little. I stand up, stretch. (sneeze). I take a paper towel and sing a Paul McCartney tune while I wipe dust, yes dust, off the glass coffee table. I look around. Back at the coffee table. I just cleaned that, didn’t I? What? Back again? Dust? You're kidding, right? (sneeze)

I’m telling you ~ they’re doing something to us. To keep us busy so we don’t notice what else THEY are doing, whatever they are trying to do to us. I know I sound paranoid, but you have to admit it’s a reasonable theory, isn’t it? So, in essence, I’m a Reasonable Paranoid-type Personality. I’m safe. Safer than the air I’m breathing, that’s for sure.

Ring. Ring. It’s just my husband on the phone. He will be late for dinner. Good. I’ve been so worried about these dust bunnies, dinner was on the back burner. Yikes! I mean, dinner was literally on the back burner. (run to kitchen, hose down the flames. Another dinner destroyed. All I can say is: Amen to Take-out). Sssshh. (sneeze).

Back in the living room. Dust back on top of the coffee table that I just cleaned. Looks like a thicker layer of dust than just a few moments ago, even. I hear the background music for Twilight Zone in my head because I feel like I’m an actress on a bad set. I wanna know what happened to the Paul McCartney tune. It wasn't half as freaky. I feel like a crazy woman. I look under the couch. The whiskers are back. I feel nauseous, like I might vomit up dust looking things. I kick the Oreck Vacuum. I give up. I flop down on a love seat opposite the couch with the staring whiskers underneath that dark, foreboding world where the springs hang out. I’m exhausted. Emotionally, mentally and physically drained. More importantly, I’m convinced we never went to the Moon. It was staged in New Mexico, in the desert. Tell me, who would know? Who would challenge it? You be asking too many questions and the next thing you know, you’re buried under a pile of dust bunnies.

Because, I’m telling you, the day we have a dust repellant that really works and gets rid of bunnies and whiskers, (don’t tell the kids), then I will honestly believe we went to the Moon, but not until. (sneeze). That’s my (sneeze) story (sneeze)(sneeze) and I’m (sneeze) sticking to (sneeze) it. (sneeze).


© Susan Joyner-Stumpf