-Tumbleweed of Fur-

In anticipation of my parent's visit, I have cleaned the attic that has been my home since the late summer. They will not be staying here tonight, or visiting for long, but I thought it might be prudent to clean the place somewhat to reassure that false impression they have of my maturity. Dishes, clothes, papers. Easy enough.

The carpet. Yikes.

My landlord has told me on more than one occasion that I am not supposed to have a pet. I counter by pointing out problems with the building that threaten our safety. There is a certain amount of give-and-take between landlords and tenants in this part of town.

Still, the familiar's fur is particularly long, and she has the run of the place, such as it is. Fur can be found on the desk, the bookshelf, and unfortunately, on the stray dinner plate left out too long.

My vacuum died a month ago, and the two of us were growing accustomed to the seemingly animate piles of fuzz. The vents send them up into the air and all around like that plastic bag the neighbor films in American Beauty. This is about as touching, but it's still garbage. I've been seizing the largest to fall into my line of vision and relocating them to the trashcan. A safer habitat.

With the folks coming, I had to be more ruthless. I borrowed an ancient vacuum so loud the percussionists below quit their act, and probably ran for open doorways. Once this was finished, I remembered how much I liked the place when it was clean. Made me linger before scampering off to work again; the feline will probably drop some more before I return.