I like to imagine that I keep a pretty clean house. Radish, with his itty bittyness and general fear of the gigantic new world around him, proved in his first two hours here that I was, in fact, just imagining.
Our little boy has decided he's very fond of wandering around behind and under the furniture. We briefly considered renaming him Pigpen. Watching him emerge covered in dust-bunnies and sneezing was cute; watching his white belly turn grey, not so much. He still doesn't have the best grasp on the whole cleaning himself thing, and apparently neither do I.
It's not like I never move things around and do a thorough sweep, but most of one wall of my living room is taken up by those Ikea shelving units where you buy each shelf and post individually and make your own configuration; they're tall and a little cheap, and my floors are kind of uneven, so before I put anything on them, I got some big brackets and attached them to the wall, so I couldn't move them even if I wanted to. And now that I think about it, it's probably been about nine months since I moved the couch. And I don't remember ever moving the video cabinets by the window.... So okay, it's exactly like I never move things around and do a thorough sweep. Fine. Quit judging me!
Anyway, last night I locked our little boy in the bathroom and cleaned for four hours. I moved everything I could, dusted many a videotape, managed to get under and behind those damn shelves, sneezed a great deal, and became thoroughly disgusted with myself. It's not like there was anything odd back there, no lost bits of food or dead rodents or anything. But the piles of hair and dust I swept up were bigger than my head (to say nothing of Radish's!).
When it was all done, I gave Radish a quick bath so he could fully enjoy the new cleanliness of his world. It went as smoothly as bathing a cat could ever be expected to go, with no mess and only a little squirming on his end.
I realized that the sad truth is that I shed more than my cat does.