His Beauty Rest

Mister Washburn Foo. Napping on my office chair. He suspects nothing, expects only the sanctity and sacredness of his nap. And then I start cleaning, with the lights on. Someone rolls the vacuum in...

Who disturbs this sacred nap?

Oh, hey, Foo. Sorry. I cannot find my yarn... don't mind me. Just tidying up a bit.

{Am I terrible for loving Foo's look of distress mixed with sad resignation, his tortured forbearance?}