The Great Bobington Purge

Dearest Friends on the Internet,

A highly disturbing memorandum arrived at my Heavenly Supervisory Office yesterday. I was reviewing the weekly household reports, approving several sunbeam requests, and rejecting Cooper’s latest petition to have bees reclassified as “airborne snacks” when HaloNet issued an alert:

THE WOMAN HAS BEGUN REMOVING THINGS FROM THE HOUSE.

Not one thing. Not five things…Sixty things. Every day.

Apparently, the woman has launched something she calls “Project 60,” during which she intends to discard, recycle, or donate 60 items from the house each day until the end of the year. This will amount to approximately 10,000 items.

Ten. Thousand. Items.

I immediately contacted the Heavenly Department of Domestic Stability because one cannot allow the woman to begin removing objects from the house without supervision. That is how perfectly good cardboard boxes disappear. It is how mysterious electrical cords are separated from appliances that nobody owns anymore. It is how a household suddenly finds itself without seventeen nearly identical tote bags.

Civilization is more fragile than you think.

I called an emergency meeting of the Bobington Household Preservation Committee. Miss Frankie arrived first. Naturally. As my feline representative on Earth and Chief Executive Officer of Countertops, she understands the seriousness of administrative matters. She also understands that every empty box entering the house immediately becomes feline property and therefore cannot legally be discarded.

“The woman has already removed three boxes,” Frankie reported.
I closed my eyes. Sometimes leadership requires a moment of silence.

“Were they occupied?” I asked. “No.”

“That is irrelevant.”

A box does not have to be occupied to be valuable. It may become occupied later. It may be the perfect box for sitting in next Thursday. It may be slightly too small, which makes it even more desirable.

Humans do not understand long-term strategic planning.

Miss Daisy joined the meeting from beneath a blanket. She did not turn on her camera, claiming executive privilege. I asked whether she possessed any belongings she was willing to contribute to Project 60.

“No,” she said.

“You have toys you have not touched in years, Daisy.”

“They are part of my archive.”

“You also have several blankets.”

“I am using all of them.”

“You are currently under one blanket.”

“The others are members of my support staff.”

The motion to examine Daisy’s possessions was denied by Daisy.

Then Cooper arrived. He was carrying what appeared to be half of a tennis ball, a piece of rope, and something that may once have been a stuffed animal but was now better described as an open crime scene.

“Excellent,” I said. “You have brought items to discard.”
Cooper looked horrified…These were apparently his good things.

I asked whether he possessed any damaged toys he would be willing to surrender. He returned several minutes later, carrying one of the woman’s shoes.

The meeting deteriorated from there.

The vile beasts have now formed the Bobington Historical Society and declared every object in the house “potentially significant.” This includes broken toys, flattened cardboard, old blankets, unidentified crumbs, and one stick Cooper brought inside for reasons known only to Cooper.

The woman, however, remains undeterred. She has made a spreadsheet. I have learned during my years of supervising her that once she makes a spreadsheet, the situation has advanced beyond ordinary intervention.

There are columns. There are dates. There are totals. There may eventually be color coding. We must now accept that this is happening.

And, although I remain concerned about the reckless disposal of cardboard, I have begun to understand what the woman is trying to do.

You see, humans have a peculiar habit of keeping things long after those things have stopped being useful.

You keep clothes belonging to a life you no longer live.

You keep objects because someone gave them to you, even though you never liked them and the person who gave them probably does not remember doing so.

You keep supplies for hobbies you once believed you should enjoy.

You keep broken things because you might repair them someday.

You keep things for the person you used to be.

You keep things for the person you thought you would become.

You keep things “just in case.” (Humans have many cases.) Most of them never occur.

Eventually, the closets fill. The drawers stop closing. The garage becomes a witness-protection program for objects nobody wants to discuss.

And still, you hesitate.

Because letting go of an object can feel like letting go of the memory attached to it. But the memory is not inside the object.

It is inside you.

The love is not inside the old sweater, the chipped bowl, the stack of papers, or the box you have carried through four moves without opening. The love goes with you.

I know something about that. When I left the house and moved to heaven, the woman kept many of my things. My bowls. My blankets. My toys. The little objects that still felt warm with the life we had shared.

I would never ask her to give away something that brings her comfort.

Grief has its own timetable, and it will not be hurried by a spreadsheet…even one with excellent formulas.

But I also need her to know that I am not contained in any of those things.
I am not inside a blanket.
I am not inside a toy.
I am not inside a photograph.

Those things may help her feel close to me, and that makes them precious. But our love is much larger than anything she could hold in her hands. Nothing she releases could ever release me.

So I have granted Project 60 provisional celestial approval.

There will, of course, be regulations and supervision:

• All cardboard boxes must be inspected by Miss Frankie.

• All blankets must be reviewed by Daisy, although she has already classified every blanket as essential infrastructure.

• Cooper is prohibited from donating the woman’s belongings instead of his own.

• And the woman must remember that this is not a punishment for having too much, keeping too much, or waiting too long. This is simply her way of making a little more room. Room to breathe. Room to create. Room to care for the life she is living now instead of storing evidence from every life she might once have lived.

Sixty things at a time, she is telling the house: Thank you. I no longer need you to hold this for me. That is not wasteful. That is not ungrateful. That is not failure. That is making space for what comes next.

Still, I will be monitoring the situation closely.

If the woman approaches my Neighborhood Supervision Room with a donation box, Project 60 will be suspended immediately pending a full investigation.

Some things are clutter. Some things are history. And some things are under the permanent protection of Bob.

Very truly yours,

Bob
Angel Cat
Heavenly Supervisor of Bobington
Interim Director, Cardboard Preservation and Unnecessary Cord Retention

P.S. We have located eleven unidentified charging cables. Nobody knows what they charge. They must remain in the house until the end of time.