Life with the Kittens at our place on the Eastern Shore has a lot of advantages, and I find my pulse slowing whenever I cross the Chesapeake Bay Bridge heading eastbound. But there is something missing from my idyllic, bucolic life there, what with our wide plank hardwood floors and the occasional ancient area rug. And that is, the pure joy of the feel of wall-to-wall carpet between the toes.
I know, most people tend to get all misty-eyed when talking about walking through grass unshod. Not me, not where I live. The likelihood that one would make contact with the leavings of one of the two Labradors who use our farm as their litter box tends to keep me on covered surfaces or with suitable footwear.
No, I reserve that kind of Nivranic reaction for the feel of walking upon wall-to-wall carpet, of which none exists in my primary residence. When I kept a pied a terre in the city, it was of course, wall to wall in every room (except the kitchen and baths). I would joyfully walk through the plush wonders of the living room on my way to the coffee machine each morning for the first cup, then back again to the bedroom. When arriving at home each night from a long day of work, my first action would be to get barefooted for the rest of the evening.
I find myself this week at the ancestral home in Clayton, NC, where there are a few patches of wall-to-wall, including the room from which I am writing and the bedroom in which I sleep. It is one of the many benefits of coming home to see Mom and Dad. In fact there are only a few feet of hardwood to endure between the couch upon which I now sit and the bed into which I will shortly alight for my afternoon nap. Where I will dream of wall-to-wall in the ManCave.