Earlier today I warmly embraced a white-haired dog and spoke to it with affection as it cheerfully imagined a thick pork chop where my head was. Later, while reading, I noticed in the glare of my reading lamp a long white hair on the arm of my dark sweater. I plucked it off, only to immediately notice another, and another, and another, and with each discovery I became more determined to rid the arm of my sweater of every last dog hair. Furthermore, when I went to dispose of the first hair by dropping it on the floor it initially floated downward, as expected, but then caught some undetected microdraft and wafted back up and landed on the arm of my sweater in the exact same spot from which I'd originally lifted it. I am not sure if the second hair I picked off my sweater was the true second hair in the disposal sequence or if it was actually the first hair, returned and posing as a different hair. Since my natural tendency in the face of such tasks is toward neurotic, plodding thoroughness, this immediate introduction of uncertainty planted a seed of anxiety in the proceedings. I went on with the job but after the confusion regarding the first hair it was all wrong and I felt sour and annoyed. At some point in this dog hair comedy I had a sudden image of myself striding triumphantly in a tuxedo across a large stage to the sound of riotous applause, in fact a standing ovation. I neared a plexiglas podium and was handed a gold statuette by a woman seemingly clad in glittering lingerie. I saw myself overcome with emotion, presumably joy. When I regained my composure and stepped up to the microphone, I realized to my horror that the gold statuette had turned into an eviction notice from my landlord, informing me that I was to immediately vacate the premises for being in chronic violation of my lease agreement, and in the Reason space it said simply "DIRTY." This was scrawled in large uneven letters as if by an angry child or a furious adult only partially recovered from a stroke.