One of the banes of my life are vacuums.
I don't even know if I'm spelling it correctly half the time. I hate the dang things, and they even go out of their way to be hard to spell. I even had to google it to make sure.
I know I speak of them as if they are more than inanimate objects, but I really think they have their own personality.
They love to make it hard on me. Personally, I think they are all hypochondriacs. I have to be very careful with them or wham! They are refusing to work for me unless I get out the band-aids.
Every few years, we have to buy a new vacuum.....and the good ones don't come cheap, either.
In my house, we need a really good vacuum I can trust because this is no run-of-the-mill carpet we are talking about.
It's the kind that has boys, dogs, cats, and clumsy adults using it.
Our last vacuum bit the dust a few days ago after only a few years of use. The last few weeks of its life I had to have Sleepy or Happy sit on it in order to produce enough suction.
After much groaning and high-pitched whining, it started to give out with outright screaming. Knowing something was very wrong, I decided to start taking it apart to see what's what.
I called Doc in because two heads are better than one, and I needed him to see the definite proof that we will have to get a new vacuum.
My strategy proved better than I thought since pieces of broken metal starting falling away during surgery.
My reaction was shock even though I'm surprised I felt any. The boys' faces looked as if they were saying, "Uh, I don't think it's supposed to look like that."
My conclusion as well, my dear Watsons.