Yesterday brought victory of sorts in goodness and right.
A resident (at the assisted living facility that employs me) whose identity shall remain anonymous and therefore be assigned the moniker of Messy Woman with a Cat Who Hoards — Ms. Hoarder for short — got her clock cleaned by moi.
Just substitute “closet” for “clock” for the truth.
Piled high in her closet were newspapers. Stacks of newspapers. Loads of newspapers. Mountains of newspapers. Describe it as you wish. An overabundant lot of newspapers dating to 2008.
And, in my goodness, and outside my job description (for any who cares), offered to clear them out.
Now, others have attempted to persuade Ms. Hoarder to let the newspapers go. Until yesterday, she refused.
Not only did they pose a fire hazard, they’d multiplied — and were continuing to do so — at such the dangerous pace, like the rabbits of Australia, the overflow from the closet threatened to cut off passage to her bed.
The bed that, among other things, the housekeepers such as I need to strip and make and upon which Ms. Hoarder slumbers.
With her umpteen stuffed animals. But that’s another post.
So … after running the situation past the executive director, I approached Ms. Hoarder, with whom I have a most fine rapport, gently and with exquisite sensitivity becoming my wise soul, with the proposition.
Lo and behold and breaking her track record of refusals, she accepted!!!
I went to work and hauled out two — TWO — giant shopping carts filled to the brim and then some with newspapers.
More still linger tucked here and there in the closet but that was the bulk. The mountain. The Lot o Newspapers.
Goodness achieved! Ms. Hoarder is happy. I am happy. And Menudo (because there’s no harm in revealing the big cat’s name I suppose) is happy.
Emptied of its ancient papers, the old box in the closet was promptly his to claim. A cat’s life indeed.