Right now in our house, several piles of Basil’s cleaned and folded laundry have sat for days collecting dust while they wait to be tucked in the bureau.
At least three pairs of his shoes silently mark their most recent steps.
Mail towers in several clumps — on the buffet, scattered on the desk upstairs, littering the dining room table.
The afghan he sat under last night lies in a heap in the den.
The newspaper he was reading an hour ago sits open to a story he left mid-sentence.
I’ve just put his plate in the dishwasher.
But here’s a bit of irony for you:
On Tuesday, the TV in the living room died.
(It was not a surprise; a hand-me-down dinosaur, it had a tube the size of a Volkswagen along its back and likely weighed as much as a mama elephant. It provided hours of viewing pleasure, yet Basil was fixated on its inappropriate size and had for sometime been making noises about wanting to replace it with a sleeker model.
(The great appliance mutiny of 2012 forestalled that plan, but apparently not for long.)
On Wednesday — less than 24 hours from the time the poor thing changed its last channel — I came home from work to find the TV had already been carted away.
Good to know where the priorities lie.