Every Saturday at 9 a.m., I ritualistically unplug the vacuum cleaner and whisper, ‘Behave.’ This week, Sir Fluffington III, my cat with the dignity of a monarch, decided to overthrow me. He sat atop the fridge, tail flicking like a metronome, as I waged war against a rogue dust bunny. The vacuum hissed like a stressed snake. ‘You’re just a loud toaster,’ I told it, but Sir Fluffington III yowled as if I’d insulted his lineage. He leapt onto the couch, knocking over my plant collection—37 succulents, one of which was named Gary and had a suspiciously human face. The vacuum chased him in circles, creating a tornado of socks and existential dread. I tried to reason. ‘We’re on the same team!’ I shouted over the noise. Sir Fluffington III paused, then launched himself into the laundry basket, which promptly tipped over, releasing a cloud of undies and my ex’s old hoodie. The vacuum, now a rogue appliance, sucked up a picture frame. Inside: my toddler self, mid-sneeze. The cat stared at me, unblinking. I surrendered. We now live in a house where the vacuum has a Netflix account and the cat speaks fluent sarcasm. Gary the succulent watches us all, judging.
