My Dyson is in the shop. This is a bad thing.
My Dyson is one of those things I never knew I would love so much until it was in my hot little hands. Who knew a vacuum cleaner could inspire such passion? Such undying devotion? Only someone with multiple animals can appreciate the depths to which one can bond to a good vacuum cleaner.
So when something went clank and it stopped performing its wondrous miracles as official tumbleweed remover, I found myself looking up repair places faster than you can say “this sucks.” ha! And off I went to the shop with the Dyson tucked into the backseat like a sorry little ambulance ride.
“My Dyson is broken,” I said breathlessly to the shop owner. “I have a big hairy Golden at home so please fix it as soon as possible.” He shrugged.
It’s been three long and lonely days now, and I’m starting to get antsy. Running after hairballs with a broom is decidedly unrewarding, as is trying to stay on top of this hot mess with a handheld.
I’d write it a country song full of longing and woe, but I don’t like country music, so I’ll just have to leave it at pestering the repair shop for an estimate so we be joyfully reunited.
It’s just one of the many things I never knew I would love so much (Furminator, no-stink collars) until I had it. And now I can’t live without it. What’s your Can’t Live Without it pet item?