After endless nights waking up with a tickly throat, streaming eyes and the general feeling that he had developed an immediate raging allergy, Sir finally bit the bullet and admitted his very old, very stiff and malodorous pillow might indeed be to blame.
This was of course admitted in his own head, as he no doubt thought – and quite correctly I will freely admit – that I might break open the case of well-aged champagne and organize a party of thousands to celebrate such a leap forward.
He waited until I was well out of the house and took matters into his own hands – always a worry if you ask me – and decided that the first step in Pillow Demise 101/102 would be to attempt to launder it. You see, had I been at home at the time, I would’ve bounded up the stairs with the swiftness of Usain Bolt to put an immediate and firm foot down on the whole idea of throwing the beastly thing into my pristine – and fairly new – washing machine.
Evidently the washing machine wasn’t greatly enthused either, and Sir realized after several moments of severe clunking that he would most certainly have some ‘splainin to do if he broke it, so he switched the machine’s setting to “no rinse,” whereupon he hauled the pillow, now weighing about 150 pounds, squished some of the water out of it, and dumped it – no doubt with a large thud – into the dryer.
Delicately placing a fabric softener sheet in with the pillow – do you mind, I ask? - he turned the dryer on, only to discover it had adopted the washing machine’s attitude and proceeded to thunk ominously with its exertions.
Now faced with 150 pounds of a sodden and still malodorous mass, he first retrieved the sopping wet dryer sheet, and then tried to haul the pillow in the direction of out. Realizing a hernia wasn’t too far off in his future, he splatted it into the washing basket, preparing to kick it across the floor. Now threatening a broken toe, he dragged the thing down the hallway, thus aggravating an old back injury, to get it to the bathtub, naturally the one furthest away from the laundry room, and finally managed to wrestle it into the bathtub – there to remain indefinitely whilst he pondered his options.
It petrified sufficiently enough over the ensuing week that he was able to manhandle it to the back deck for a further drying experience over the weekend, but with the weather such as it was, he finally, forlornly, gave it the last rites and blessed it – thankfully - to the trash bin.
But not before old eagle-eyed me, saw the laundry instructions – so faded as to be almost illegible. It was indeed in hieroglyphics, and I managed to muster up a fast translation:
Contents: 100 percent dodo feathers. To wash: drag to river, obtain two rocks, beat vigorously and haul to third pyramid on the right for further drying instructions.
Annie Dear lives in Lee’s Summit. Email her at firstname.lastname@example.org.