Now I knew when we went to the rug doctor and the prognosis favored a steam-o chemo treatment, it was likely that our rug might shed a tear or two. But after a few trips around the calendar you’d think the biggest fuzz producer in our kennel would be that floss between my teeth, or the emergency peach I keep stashed in my all too-roomy, gut-button. But no, as fate would have it my ‘pile of nap’ carpet is a virtual fine fur warehouse where even the dust bunnies' shadows have five o’clock fluff!
This unfortunate rug revelation in no way means I have abandoned my lurid love of all things linty in life. Vacuum bags and their seductive stash of inner secrets still call to me like Fabio finds frustrated, feckless housewives. And lest we forget the oft ignored dryer trap, which never fails to fuel my fuzzy logic with great joy and the freedom of reckless self-expression. Clearly I have faced and embraced my inner fuzz even if most sane people I know aren’t ‘DOWN’ with it.
Yes, despite the unrestrained side of the family tree and their best efforts to straighten my jacket and un-rumple my hump, I won’t be denied the dust. I lasciviously laugh at your locked and loaded laundry rooms and haughty British bag-less ball vacs with genuine desire. Because let’s FACE it, anyone, given the chance, would surely love to shove, my goofy glued-up mug into the lint-hole of a hot dryer. But be forewarned, I may sprout a ‘bad to the bone’ crazy biker beard with a ‘tude to match, or of course I might be just EXACTLY the same - ‘FUZZY’ brained!
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