Since he was a baby, Rowan had always been fascinated with vacuums. The second it roared to life, he lit up. Once his legs were strong enough to hold him, he insisted on vacuuming himself. He was tall enough to reach, but his balance and coordination had other plans. His attempts were pure chaos, but he loved helping, so I let him. Every day after school, he’d march through the door and demand the vacuum so he could clean his room.
It became his daily chore. Before I knew it, he had managed to get a “job” at school helping the janitor. He would spend hours mopping the floor if they let him. Then his requests got bolder — he suggested the vacuum for everything. Spilled milk, the puddle from the cat missing the litter box, whatever his imagination decided counted as “a mess.”
When I moved to my new place, everything was wood floors. The mop was bulky and hard for him to manage. That’s when he discovered the Dust Buster. He named it Dusty, and instantly it outranked the TV, the kittens, and his video games. He’d start asking for Dusty the second he walked through the door. No one else was allowed to use it. It was his friend and his job. I thought it was cute, and as long as he wasn’t sucking up anything dangerous, I didn’t pay much attention.
One afternoon he called from the kitchen, saying the cats made a mess. I checked — litter spilled on the floor — so I let him clean it.
Back in the living room, I heard an awful noise, followed by Rowan yelling that Dusty was “throwing up.” My imagination sprinted ahead of me. Then the smell hit — something burning. I got to the kitchen in time to see Rowan clutching Dusty, a huge pile of kitty litter on the floor, and the realization hit me: he had vacuumed the litter inside the box, not outside it. Dusty had overfilled and somehow emptied herself back onto the floor. The burning smell was the motor giving up on life.
A sad ending. Dusty died doing what she loved — eating things she shouldn’t.
Still standing, still only own a mop,
K.
I'm Still Here. Somehow... 