Emily woke up in the morning to the sound of someone pounding on her door . Drowsily, she looked at her watch. Eight thirty-seven. There were three tiny little letters above the time; s u n. Who in their right mind would get up so early on a Sunday morning? Or any summer morning, for that matter.
“Emily! Get up! We’re going too be late for church!” Mrs. Creevey shrieked from the other side of the door.
“Coming,” Emily yawned back.
Satisfied, Mrs. Creevey went back downstairs. Emily could hear the clanking of her heels on the wooden steps.
Grumbling, Emily got up and went down to the kitchen, where she found Mrs. Creevey straightening Mr. Creevey’s tie.
The Creeveys were a strange couple. Mrs. Creevey was loud, overbearing, and constantly upset over one thing or another. Mr. Creevey on the other hand was quiet, introverted, and a pushover. And if that wasn’t enough, they even looked odd together. Mrs. Creevey was tall, wore caked on make up, and was “big-boned,” while Mr. Creevey was short, balding, and appeared rather mousey.
Mrs. Creevey looked over Mr. Creevey’s shoulder and saw Emily, still in her pajamas.
“There you are,” she said irritably. “Come here.”
Emily walked over to her.
“Now,” Mrs. Creevey said. “While we’re gone you are to scrub the kitchen floor, clean Cissy’s litter box, and vacuum the rug in the dining room. Understood?”
She glared down at Emily, who nodded.
Did I forget to mention that while Mr. and Mrs. Creevey were going to church, Emily wasn’t? For a couple of church-goers, the Creeveys could be really… what’s the word? Cold? Prideful? Slave driver-ish? Those all worked but weren’t quite what I was hoping for. Inhospitable? That’s the word.
Though it’s not like Emily minded them leaving her. Her parents had taken her to a church and told her all the Bible stories, but she drifted away from that when they died. Plus, if there was a god, she didn’t really want anything to do with him. What kind of god would let a five year old accidentally kill her parents? And not even grant her the knowledge of how?
After the Creeveys finished getting ready, they left, leaving Emily to her chores. She didn’t bother getting out of her pajama shorts and shirt; she was just going to get dirty while cleaning anyways.
Because it was the easiest and quickest, Emily decided to start with the litter box. It was tucked in a corner of the laundry room. She took the little shovel and a plastic bag and started scooping.
Cissy, the Creeveys’ overly fuzzy cat, pranced in. That cat was demon possessed. She always chose right when Emily was cleaning the litter box to use it.
“Cissy, no,” Emily said, pushing the cat away. As only a cat could do, Cissy ducked under Emily’s hands. Then she did her business right on the abandoned shovel.
Emily sighed, frustrated, before picking up the contaminated shovel--carefully, so as to avoid the cat droppings--and finished up. She took the bag of dung and dropped it in the trash bin.
“There, that’s done,” Emily said to herself.
She decided to do the kitchen floor next. After procuring a bucket of soapy water and a sponge, she went on all fours and scrubbed. An hour later she had most of the floor clean, and was back by the bucket, where she had started, working on a particularly tough spot.
Aside from Cissy, the Creeveys had another pet. A puffy Pomeranian named Twinkles. Let me just say that Cissy and Twinkles don’t quite see eye to eye on everything. Ever heard the expression “fight like cats and dogs”? Yeah, that was based on them.
A bark and a hiss told Emily that they were at it once more. Twin streaks of caramel fur bolted through the door, one after the other. Twinkles was chasing Cissy. Again. They sped around the kitchen, tracking dirt on the newly cleaned floors. Flying at Emily, Cissy gracefully swerved between her arms. Gracefully like a cat. Dogs aren’t nearly as graceful.
Twinkles crashed into Emily’s arms, which slipped on the wet floor, while the dog skidded. Emily fell forward, hitting her chin on the bucket. They both were knocked to the floor. The dirty mop water doused her hair and face, and went on to soak her arms and legs.
Emily stood up, seething. Dumb as the animals were, they had enough sense to stop their squabbling and head for the door.
“Yeah, you better run!” she called after them. She groaned and rubbed her chin.
Emily soaked up the spilt water with a couple towels, then hauled them into the laundry room. She refilled the bucket with fresh water and started scrubbing all over again. It took another hour before it was done.
By then it was eleven in the morning. The Creeveys would be back in a half hour, maybe less. Emily still had the vacuuming to do. Mrs. Creevey would not be happy if she hadn’t completed her chores.
Emily went to the cleaning supplies closet and exchanged the sponge and bucket for the bulky vacuum. She lugged it into the dining room. Next she pulled the chairs away from the table so as to vacuum the rug surrounding it.
About halfway through the rug Emily was starting to relax. The rhythmic back and forth, push and pull, the--though rather raucous--purr of the vacuum, the mindlessness of it all. It was comforting.
This ended abruptly.
Twinkles sauntered in, spied the vacuum, and started behaving very un-dog-like. Most dogs cower in fear of the great, noisy, sucking machine. Twinkles saw a new playmate.
He jumped on it and off of it playfully, wagging his little tail. This was fine but for a few things. A) It was not easy to clean around a bouncing ball of fluff. B) Twinkles had long, luxurious, and easily suck-able fur. And the vacuum was set on high. C) He had strangled Emily’s last nerve with the whole bucket-water thing. All in all, she had had enough of the stupid dog.
Emily turned off the vacuum and picked up Twinkles roughly. She tossed him out the door into the hall where he landed with a pathetic squeal. Her sympathies were not running high just then. She was about to slam the door when she caught a glimpse of the little fluff ball.
Except he wasn’t so fluffy anymore.
Emily opened the door wider and saw that Twinkles had been reduced to nothing more than a shivering, shaved, purple rat.
Revenge was oh, so sweet.
Until you get caught, that is.
Emily was about to go into a fit of hysterics when she heard several things in a quick procession: A car engine shutting off, the jangle of keys, the opening and closing of a door, and a piercing scream from the end of the hall.
The Creeveys were home, and the Missus had seen her now-rat-like dog. Sorry, now-purple-rat-like dog.
, Nepo!
