Vacuum Cleaner

I am not the histrionic dog that Little Dog is. I keep my cool. Except when you have a ball, or that one time when I went to the dog park and refused to leave the water because I was having too much fun, I am a Zen dog. If I were music, I would be Jazz. If I were an alien, I would be a Vulcan. If I were president of the United States, I would be Barack Obama.

But the vacuum cleaner undoes me. I see it come out of the closet and I get tense. I watch it from far away with a nervous look on my face. It comes near me, so move to my safe place between the chair and the ottoman. It cannot respect my personal space any more than it can respect my ears with its high-itched scream. It comes near me again. I move away, quickly, my tail down. I hide in another room, and hope it will go away.