There is a long history to why I hate vacuum cleaners.
My siblings are both older than I am (14 and almost 17 years). When it got to the point where I could walk and even run, they thought it was hilarious (HILARIOUS) to chase me around the house with a vacuum cleaner. It was even better when they could plug it in, corner me, and chase me down with the vacuum cleaner on. This delightful exercise was always accompanied with a battle cry of, "Grace is afraid of the sweeeeeeeeeeeper!"
It's no surprise that I hated vacuum cleaners.
One Christmas, my brother, Pilot, asked my mom what he should get me. He must have been about sixteen that year, and my mom--gotta love her--said, "Why don't you get one of those cute vacuum cleaners for kids!" You know, the kind with the cute colorful plastic beads that shot around when you moved it? So Pilot did. I unwrapped that sucker on Christmas day and ran screaming into the closest closet sobbing hysterically that I was afraid of the sweeeeeeper!!! My brother rolled his eyes at my mom and said, "Thanks, Mom."
At some point, I know I got over this, and played with that toy fairly often. This the beauty of having older siblings; if I can't recall a particular thing, they tell it to me so often I feel like I must be able to remember it.
Yesterday, we vacuumed the dog for the first time. No, not laid him out on the floor and vacuumed him, we did it with a hose attachment. He was none too pleased, but put up with it, presumably for the sake of my allergies (or because I kept feeding him pupperoni the whole time).
In order to get him more accustomed to the noise, Vor penned him in his crate when he ran the vacuum cleaner this morning. All throughout, I could Vor saying, "Good Telly. What a good boy!" Finally, the cleaner is shut off, and I ask, "How was he?" Of course, the answer is, "He totally freaked out."
He must take after me.
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