The moment I plugged in the vacuum, my dog, Sir Barksalot, turned into a furry tornado. He’d been napping in the hallway, a deflated balloon of fur, until the motor whirred. Suddenly, he was a missile, leaping over couch cushions and knocking over my mom’s “I Heart Brooklyn” mug. I yelled, ‘No!’ as he zigzagged into the kitchen, trailing a trail of cereal bits and existential dread.
The vacuum sputtered like a dying car. Sir Barksalot, now a golden retriever-sized tornado, lunged for the hose. I chased him, yelling, ‘That’s not a toy!’ He responded by yanking the cord out of the wall, plunging the house into darkness. The only light came from my phone, which revealed him sitting triumphantly on the power strip, tail wagging like a metronome.
I crouched, whispering, ‘Give me the cord,’ as if negotiating with a toddler. He blinked, then launched into a bark-fest, summoning the neighbor’s cat, who’d been lurking in the shadows. The cat hissed. Sir Barksalot barked. The house shook. Finally, I surrendered, tossing him a squeaky bone. He accepted it with the dignity of a conqueror, leaving me to mop up a puddle of denial in the hallway.
That night, I stared at the ceiling, wondering if my life had become a sitcom. Sir Barksalot, now asleep on my chest, snored like a chainsaw. I patted his head, thinking: maybe chaos is just another form of love.
