I heard shrieks coming from the living room a couple of days ago and wandered in to see people watching an episode of Hoarding: Buried Alive. Only the subject of the show was not wading through heirlooms, garage sale bargains, sentimental matchbooks, or stacks of National Geographic. This woman was sitting in a chair surrounded by real garbage: empty soda bottles, pizza boxes, used syringes from insulin shots, rotten food and cockroaches everywhere. Her two children live with her. I would not call this hoarding; I would call it not over the top, but under the bottom.

Now, I know I am not a neat housekeeper. (I would be neater if I could use a gun or whip on the people who live with me.) And I have kept old pizza boxes – tore in half and rolled to help get fires going. Yes, I have collars from deceased dogs in my drawers. I have saved other things that could bring me close to classification in some sort of nutcase state, but while I may trip over the occasionally not-supposed-to-be-in-the-middle-of-the-floor item, I have not had to wade through two feet of garbage with my own two feet, while stepping on many multi-footed scurrying creatures.

I sense a tingle of feeling bad about remarking on this because I have always been vocal about people whose houses look like model homes. I do feel bad for this woman because she is more than quirky; I think she is mentally ill because living in filth voluntarily is, well, not right. I don’t think she should be on a show that investigates hoarding.

In the small town where my mother grew up, there was a school teacher who was a hoarder. She was very intelligent and kept herself very clean, but her house, at the time of her death, was nothing more than paths through stacks of stuff. When men came to clean it out, they just grabbed stuff – until one book opened up and a couple of $20 bills floated out. Then they went from toting out junk to looking for buried treasure and they got quite a haul.

I realize that I watched the first few shows on hoarding because, like many others, I am a gawker at the unusual. It was a look not only at an extreme form of housekeeping, but a peek into someone’s mind and the thin line that separates us at times. As someone who can make up a story about just any object and tie it up with some heartfelt tugging string, I can see how someone could keep a hell of a lot of stuff.

The shock value of the actual garbage house captured my attention for a while, but it was really more like staring at a three-headed bunny. You can’t believe it. When you do realize what you are seeing and you believe it, it’s time to look away.

But I know myself and who knows what I will gawk at next and that’s why the networks put on the shows they do.

Yesterday, after having used the willpower of a commando war dog, Shane fought the effects of sedation. When he came home, he collapsed for the day, eating a small meal late in the day.

This morning I thought he might be hungry and had Cameron give him some dog food with his side order of shredded cheese. Soon afterward, Shane showed up and indicated he wanted me to follow him. He led me to a box of special dog food and I gave him some, along with the cheese, on a paper plate.

I thought that would be it. But no. He started to munch and then jumped away from the plate, only approaching it again for a few sniffs. He took the plate in his mouth and emptied it on the floor, only then eating the rest of the food.

I have no idea what was going on, other than that I later noticed I had put the plate down on a runner run that was on top of berber carpeting and between them was the vacuum cleaner cord. It wasn’t plugged in, however, so my theory of electric energy sensitivity went out the window, unless some electrons stayed in the cord to play instead of running home when the vacuum was turned off.

It’s overcast and sprinkling. My muscles are aching and the aspirin bottle is nearby. It has to be a sign: Sit comfy and read. At least that’s how I choose to interpret it.