Dustin’ The Bunnies

An ode to the power of leaving well enough alone

By Grant Britt

People who come to my house for the first, and usually, the last time, seem somewhat taken aback by my housekeeping methods, or lack thereof. It’s not so much that I’m bad at it as it is that I just don’t see what the problem is. When I put something down, it’s usually because I want it to stay where it is for the duration. And that would be either for the duration of my life or that of the object. Therefore, I see no need to disturb it, or me, for the mere purpose of brushing it off. I find that over the years, my objests d’art — the various Elvii reincarnations including a bust of the King topped with a luchador mask, a plaster statue of Martin Luther King sporting Bullwinkle horns and wearing an orange sash of police tape with “Do Not Enter” emblazoned on it, and a revolving Santa  figurine sporting a “I’d Rather Be Riding My Tractor” bumper sticker across his ample belly, all surrounded by  life-size standup  posters  featuring the full cast from the  movie The Big Lebowski, — acquire a fine patina, composed of dust, finger smudges, and various and sundry airborne pathogens.

Movement, regarding among people or objects, makes me nervous. When something gets where it’s supposed to go, it’s time to leave it be. It’s like this: If I wanted to use the damned thing in daily life, I’d have it either in my hand, my pocket, or a-hangin’ off my belt. If it’s just sittin’ there, then by Gawd it’s at rest and you’d best leave it there if you know what’s good for you. But obviously you don’t, or else I wouldn’t have to be writing about your meddling with my stuff.

Most people know and abide by the rules, but every once in a great while I’ve had an out-of-towner or a trial girlfriend who turns out to be an under-the-bed peeper. It’s OK to look; just don’t make the mistake of mentioning it to me. I don’t give a damn if the dust bunnies are the size of Bigfoot — they don’t eat much and they don’t keep me up at night, so let them, and me, alone.

If you look at it in the right way, which is my way, it’ll make life a whole lot easier — for both of us. I don’t consider it dust so much as decoration, a natural enhancement not to be fiddled with by grubby  human paws. A few Elvii appear to have dandruff issues, and the Jesus action figure seems to be performing another miracle by causing it to snow atop the desert background in his display case, but other than that, nobody seems concerned abut it, least of all me.

Not to mention the fact that dust doubles as a protective coating. All that shiny paint they put on stuff can hurt your eyes if it doesn’t have a nice layer of funk on top. Dust is our friend. In addition to dulling the glare from bright and shiny surfaces, if you leave it alone long enough, it gets all gummed up around the sharp edges of things so you won’t cut yourself if you violate house rules and pick something up, (but that doesn’t mean that I won’t cut you, so behave yourself!)

Well, you get the idea. Maybe it’s time for you to run along. You won’t keep still, you’re stirrin’ up the dust and disturbin’ the critters, and more important, me. So for everybody’s sake, why don’t you just scoot on along back to your spotless little house and squeaky-clean life and leave me to do the dirty work? Somebody’s got to feed those bunnies.  OH

Readers are encouraged to enable Grant Britt’s pursuit of collectibles to hoard by leaving possible treasures on his porch on trash day or any other joyous discarding occasion.

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