We are not experts on air compressors, okay? So when the pressure in the outake tank stayed at zero, Phyllis and I were stymied. The pressure in the holding tank kept going up. We only had seconds to act before the entire house and neighborhood exploded. Then The Thing shut off by itself.
All I wanted was a fighting chance in The War on Dirt. Lisle weighs just over a 100 pounds and 98 pounds of that is dander. When she shakes in the living room, every ten minutes or so, it snows, and three hours after washing all of the dust off of everything, we are again slogging through ash from Mt. St. Helens. Lisle's puppy video on youtube has 299,446 views. There are endless comments about how cute she is. No longer a puppy, she is still very cute, even with a head the size of a basketball. But when you can't find the couch under the mud, it's time for shock and awe.
We cracked open the manual and Phyllis read aloud while I wrung my hands. I've always had an aversion towards power tools. They're much too loud, and I make it a policy to stand clear of anything that can slice through solid oak like it's jello. This air compressor would gladly shred us like a meat grinder if it had a quarter of a chance. We had to go at it from a different angle... dissect its innards and reassemble, if only in our minds. We had to think like an air compressor.
When we first got her home, Phyllis started reading the manual while I turned her on and revved her up. The air compressor! I blew a few pounds of St. Bernard dander off of the blinds in the living room while Phyllis kept reading. Sometimes, I jump head first into a situation with a devil may care attitude. I threw caution to the wind that burst out of the nozzle, full steam ahead. A few minutes later, we smelled something burning. We shut her off.
We decided to put her away and think about that tomorrow. So that was last night, when I thought I would use her to blow out my computer. She's a pretty little unit, whore-house red, but pretty won't win The War on Dirt. Pretty won't even take a little hill.
So we tried her again and the intake tank filled up just fine. The needle kept rising to an alarming level. The holding tank stayed at zero, and no matter how many times I depressed the little handle, nothing happened. Then she shut off by herself. Phyllis brushed against what must have been an emergency release valve because POW! Air rushed out like puncturing a hot air balloon. If she had wings, she'd have flown to Dixie. The air compressor!
That was when Phyllis got out the manual again and a sense of impending doom spread over me. During the short time we had her, I had grown to love that gutsy little air compressor. Phyllis said not to worry, because she's had plenty of power tools and they are made to take a beating.
So, we put her away again to think about that tomorrow, and we watched Gone With the Wind.
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