Now that my office has new flooring and is finally so clean that it could win an award from Good Housekeeping, I am turning over a new leaf.

Actually, 17 new leaves, which belong to a houseplant that my wife, Sue, gave to me so I could have someone (or something) to talk to when I am lonely or need inspiration so I can write drivel like this.

The plant is, fittingly, a dumb cane, which now has a dumb owner. It is known by the scientific name of Dieffenbachia, although I have named it Robert, after Robert Plant, the lead singer of the classic rock group Led Zeppelin.

I am calling our dynamic duo Led Zezima.

That’s why, according to Sue, I have to give Robert a whole lotta love. This includes watering him, talking to him and tending to his every need, which wouldn’t seem to be too extensive for a brainless creature that doesn’t do much.

Same goes for the plant.

Robert is one of 25 potted pals scattered around the house. The other 24 don’t have names because, let’s face it, they wouldn’t answer if you called them anyway.

But Robert is special. He’s my responsibility and I will do everything in my power to help him thrive except — this is where I draw the line — put him through college.

Sue is responsible for all the other houseplants because she has a green thumb. I think she should see a dermatologist.

They include seven Christmas cactuses that Sue said don’t know it’s not Christmas. And I thought my plant was dumb.

Nonetheless, the cactuses (didn’t the plural used to be cacti?) are downstairs in the living room and are blooming.

“They enjoy being by the triple window,” said Sue, adding that they are on the west side of the house.

Across the room, on the east side, are four plants of undetermined identity. They seem to be doing well, too.

“These guys,” I said, pointing to three small plants on the TV console, “look great.”

Sue sighed and said, “Those are fake!”

In the family room, also on the east side, are several plants, including one that Sue got at a high school reunion dinner and another she got when she had a heart attack.

Nearby, facing the south side, are an African violet and a purple plant that Sue calls “the purple plant.”

“They like it here,” she said.

“How do you know?” I asked.

“They told me,” Sue answered.

In the kitchen, on either side of my chair at the table, are a poinsettia and a citronella that menace me when I am eating. It’s a good thing there isn’t a Venus flytrap or I would be dinner.

Speaking of which, in the dining room, facing the west side, are two unidentified plants, one of which Sue got a few years ago from a student at a school where she was a teacher’s assistant.

Sue put an ice cube in its pot. When it melts (the cube, not the pot), the plant can drink.

“Won’t it catch cold?” I wondered.

“Of course not,” she replied.

“I guess you’re right,” I said. “I’ve never heard a plant sneeze.”

My plant, the only one that lives upstairs, is nothing to sneeze at. He’s healthy and handsome, he gets watered every Saturday and he sits by a window facing east, where the sun rises (last I checked) every morning.

“You’re doing a good job,” said Sue. “Robert seems very happy.”

“That’s because I talk to him,” I said.

“Does he answer?” Sue wanted to know.

“No,” I replied.

“Do you sing Led Zeppelin songs to him?” she asked.

“He doesn’t seem interested,” I answered.

“Maybe,” said Sue, “he’s not so dumb after all.”

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