In dark repose, Vac bathes in a shower of shirttails. I’m awakened from my sofa-slumber by a muted coughing sound, almost mechanical. A thin cloud of dust escapes from under the closet door. From my supine position on the futon, I wait to see if the phenomenon repeats itself before I investigate further. I think I hear laughing, a sort of muffled mechanical giggle coming from the hallway.
Something is afoot. Vac apparently doesn’t know I am home, or doesn’t care. There is a familiar whir and bang. The closet door bursts open, and the Vac comes flying out, blindly ramming furniture, knocking over vases and lamps. It smashes the television and a computer monitor, all the while sucking up any small particles it finds in its path.
If Vac had hands, he would be wringing them to punctuate its hunched-over evil grin. Nature abhors a vacuum, but I did not know that the vacuum returned the spite with such vengeance. Suddenly, I understand why the cats are afraid.
M. David Hornbuckle 