My house is delicate, designed specifically for and making sense only to those who move through it daily. Miss a step and you’ll knock over an entire neighborhood of tiny things or plants perched atop a wavering stack of books or trial artwork barely clinging to the wall with whatever I could get to stick. The idea of sharing my space, so intimately organized with fragile trinkets ready to topple at the first wisp of air from another person was stressful. I didn’t want to explain why you have to turn your head perpendicular to the sink to wash your face or make excuses for a house entirely suited to me; these weren’t inconveniences, this is just how we do things here. But watching B bop around the museum for the first time, it was unexpectedly obvious. 

Aw. You fit here. 

It’s true. My house likes B, he likes the house. They make each other look good. He grazes with grace and intention, appreciating the story it tells through thrifted treasures mixed with artifacts collected from a lifetime of meaningful experiences, people and places. He’s got a good eye + digs mine, preferred traits in a housemate, or rather, understudy curator for the museum with a twist. But the best part, he rolls hard with my love for tiny things.

Which brings us to The Great Floor War of 2025.

On my 44th birthday, we wandered into Bernie’s Rock Shop up the block and I bought myself an irrational, impractical ornamental rock. A little boulder opal carving of a horse head. I won’t tell you how much it cost because it’s stupid and makes me feel weird and also because I didn’t actually even know it cost what it did when I went to buy it, but I had already decided the horse was mine the moment the Bernie’s guy let me hold it for a “better look” and it felt strange to pretend I didn’t want it anymore just because of what it cost, though in hindsight, that would have actually been pretty normal, maybe even expected.

Anyway. The horse came home with me, such an unnecessary delight. B loved it too, touched by the symbolic nature, which was 100% intentional on my part. He was mid-horse tattoo, his chart full of air, the horse representing his human form, in flight mid-stride. Humanity being only thing grounding him. We took turns picking it up, fondling it in admiration, marveling at the tiny detail. We talked about getting it a pillow, something soft to lay on. You could feel its delicate nature.

As B was returning it to the table, we both heard it, though I pretended I didn’t. Rock hitting ground. I saw his face. More of a this could be really bad look instead of oh fuck, so there’s hope, no need to overreact. He squatted quick, candy hitting the floor, five second rule. His eyes widened. There it was, the oh fuck. It’s bad. Real bad.

Any shred of hope I had, sank. Earlier that Sunday I had broken a beautiful pot, lost the death battle with a plant, and my truck started screaming with a high-pitched whistle, don’t you dare drive one more inch, before the brakes started going. Happy birthday! But I find it weirdly helpful to face all of life’s fuck you’s as though each were A Test. Of what? Don’t know, doesn’t really matter. Example: Ooohhh, I thought, as I rewinded the events of the day, my birthday, mostly lovely but sprinkled with some silly little hurdles, this being one of them. This feels like a test. 

Sure, the horse part sucked, I had the thing for less than three hours before decapitating its lovely little intricate head at the ear, but overall my birthday had quite literally been the best yet, just like everyone hopes for you on Facebook.

But poor B. I felt worse for him than me. How awful it feels to accidentally destroy something someone you love, loves. I attempted reassurance. It’s fiiiiiiine. It’s just a thing. I know it’s my birthday. Yes it was a stupid amount of money, that one’s on me dude. Really. It’s not a big deal. It’s just a thing. Look around. Half the shit in my house is held together by super glue, including that glass blown rooster, which when I chose it’s spot on that highly trafficked shelf, I literally said, “I wonder how long before that breaks.” And still, I left it there. One week! I broke it in one week.

But also fuuuuuuuuuuhh. How awful would I feel, were the roles reversed? More than anything, I wanted to find that horse ear for B so we could glue it back together and everyone could feel less terrible. 

When I tell you we looked everywhere for that ear, that doesn’t remotely describe how deep the search went. We dropped the horse in the living room, but velocity and force and the entirety of physics are capable of getting wild, so we investigated the Parlour, the kitchen, the hallway, the entire first floor. I vacuumed. I swept. I lifted up carpets, dusted ledges. Dug between couch cushions. Moved chairs. Moved every single plant. Moved them again. Searched the gaps in my floor boards. The crevices between the baseboards. Poked around planters. Swiped stands. Brushed books. By gods it had to be somewhere. Judging by the remaining horse head, it was a fairly significant piece. Unless it poof disintegrated, how could it just disappear? 

But. It did. 

A few days later I picked up a dog nail Serena had chewed off that did a decent job passing. I thought for a moment if you squinted, it really could be the missing piece and affixed it to the horse head with some museum wax like a bad toupee.

Pre-planned, but perfectly timed, a few days later my right leg became stamped with the equine image on B’s left. A matching horse head, one he can’t break, we joked. Still I held out hope every time I cleaned, kept my eyes sharp, ears peeled, though I couldn’t fathom how it could be anywhere inside my house. Mise en place. Usually if I can’t find something within in 5 minutes, 99% fact it does not live under this roof anymore. I know where everything is squirreled away.

Last week I was jzoosh-ing around, experimenting with placements for recently acquired St. Vinny’s wares. I gazed at the slender silver platform candlestick often used as a plant stand, currently perched on the kitchen counter, holding a plant in a pink flamingo. Too tall, I decided. I tipped the stand over to see if it looked better upside down and heard the sound I’d been yearning for over a month.

Wait, what? No. How? Unrelated memories began colliding, taking the shape of a feasible explanation.

I move things around a lot. Up until just one week ago that plant stand was on the ground, very, very near the scene of the Great Floor War of 2025. Which means that sound? Could be the sound.

How it shimmied into a hole fully covered by a potted plant may forever go down as one of life’s great mysteries.

I let that logic slow my roll a bit, with the additional reminder that I put a bunch of tiny things in whatever will hold them. Could be a nail. A tack. A marble. Don’t get yer hopes up T. I dropped to my hands and knees in the Parlour to casually take a peek. Oooh. A rock looking piece. Could just be a floof of fuzz. I reached under the chair, felt the exact portion of what I’d been searching for all this time. Don’t rush the moment. Enjoy this possibility, because the only other option is immediate disappointment. I opened my clenched palm. It was It. It had to be.

B was cooking in the kitchen. Verification before celebration. I tiptoed my secret into the living room where the headless horse lay, removed Serena’s toenail toupee and lined the rock piece up. Cinderella’s slipper. 

You came back to me, I whispered. 

BEEEEEEEEEEE! GUESS WHAT I FOOOOOOOOOUND!!!!!?

Uh, so yeah. I guess the moral of this horse story: Don’t be afraid to move things around, shake things up, turn ’em over. You might find that huge impossibly missing rock ear.