Having a floofy white dog means doing more laundry, as he leaves fur everywhere. Today I washed a blanket and a duvet cover (whatever that is), and when I went to transfer them to the dryer I ran into a situation which had overtones disturbing enough to please a David Cronenberg or a Joel-Peter Witkin. I opened the little round door of the front-loading machine and saw only the tan of the duvet cover, which I attempted to pull out. Meeting surprising resistance, I yanked harder, the bunched fabric straining against the black rubber seal of the opening as I tugged, the friction producing a squeaking sound. I had to use both hands, but after some struggle it finally popped out. How could these two items have gotten so bulky? It was like I was helping the machine give birth, the scene imbued with disquieting biological suggestiveness. The washer reluctantly gave up this wet ball, which surprised me with its heft, and furthermore the blanket was nowhere to be seen. Setting this dense object on top of the dryer, I proceeded to surgically remove the blanket from within the duvet cover, which it had somehow entered during the agitation, not only entered but seemingly burrowed into, so tightly packed it was. It was like extracting a parasite from living tissue to remove it. It was compacted into a mean little ball and still covered in so much dog hair I had to wash it all over again. This experience suggested all sorts of upsetting images. How can I now sleep under these formerly innocent linens? Once they were part of my cozy domestic nest, objects of comfort and reassurance, like a plate of warm cookies or a carton of cigarettes. Now I might as well wrap myself in placenta, or don a scarf of human skin. Their aura of consolation has now been destroyed, replaced with one of bio-horror and disgust. Nauseating laundry. Images haunt me, my borderline obsessive/compulsive tendencies reveal themselves at such times. I torture myself with them, it's clearly some kind of mental self-mutilation.