We have three cats.
Shedders, every one.
We could vacuum up an extra cat’s worth of fur per day if we vacuumed per day.
But we don’t.
Two of the three felines also enjoy a good lightning sprint from the litter box at least twice a day. This sends litter flying well past the specialized mats that are supposed to catch and trap the litter. We have four times as many of these mats as we have sprinting cats, and occasional litter messes forty times as far from the boxes as anyone ever expected.
We try to keep up with the mess, but, alas, we fail. Or we just don’t, depending on the pace and temperature of real life.
The Hubs wondered ages ago whether a Roomba would be useful.
I doubted it since we also have one-and-a-half kitties who gift us furballs. And I’veseen the YouTube videos of the Roombas meeting the messes, and yeah. No. I balked for quite a bit.
Then Writer Friend got a robot vacuum. Gave her a name, Effie. It mapped her house and has the kitty glitter from a single cat removed while she writes at the library.
She seems to have good luck with it.
Then Adultish-Man-Child got one. Gave his a name, Darnell. Tasked it with kitty glitter duty for two kitties. Has had good luck with it.
So, after a couple of years of tossing out excuses and a couple of boots (or robots)-on-the-ground (or floors) case studies, I caved.
I unboxed the round gadget, downloaded the app, and… named it—
Uh, her. I named her.
Hazel.
Hazel’s first task was to map the house. I dutifully followed directions and cleared anything that could trip her up, watched for a few amused minutes as all three cats had opinions about Hazel, and then let her do her job.
The map rendered 45 minutes later.
Hazel believed I have 28 rooms.
I do not.
I have three cats who decided this was the project on which to cooperate. They formed walls around Hazel, forcing the lowly floor bot to go around them. Hazel believed our home had teeny rooms delineated by furry walls, but who is she to judge?
She’s just here to vacuum the floor.
Effie and Darnell didn’t have this much trouble with their respective homes and kitties.
I deleted the map.
The next day, after Hazel had a nice, long nap, I tried again. I set Hazel to cartography mode and followed, careful to stay behind her so as not to block her “learning” sensor. I batted away the judgmental, curious cats—no furry walls this time.
This map turned out reasonably well, and Hazel was ready for her first cleaning job.
This also went reasonably well.
For a day or two, I got a kick out of sending Hazel to clean different zones, and the cats got used to her rambling about, only impeding her progress a few times.
Last week, the three cats and I were on the couch. During these daily Office Staff meetings, we often discuss why we are not in the writing office the day before, why tomorrow is looking iffy, and why right now is also not a good time to be in the writing office.
We rearrange and root around under blankets, all lopsided and willy-nilly, and decide collectively to give our brains more time to recharge. I mean, we’re barely able to operate a self-operating robot, let alone hold plot lines and novel progress in our heads.
Oh, yeah.
Hazel.
She’s been charging for several days. Her bin is empty. She’s ready to roll.
I send her to the master bedroom/bathroom area. We all perk up as she announces she’s heading away from home base, then we relax back into our cocoons of fuzzy blankets and reruns of The West Wing, feeling quite spoiled.
Halfway through the episode, I get a text.
I flip the phone over.
“Hazel needs help.”
I pause the show and listen over one cat’s snores. I hear nothing coming from the back of the house. I have to move two cats off me and tick off the snoring one to get untangled from the blanket. I show the office staff the text as proof of why I had to disturb them all. “Hazel needs help, y’all.”
We all file down the hall to see what the problem might be.
There’s Hazel, all lopsided and willy-nilly over the wooden threshold between the bathroom tile and the hardwood floor—a space she’s never had trouble with before.
Her bin had ejected and her little lights are all glitching on and off.
And right there, Hazel and I bonded.
Because I, too, can become willy-nilly and lopsided. My bin gets clogged and ejects at the slightest inconvenience. My lights glitch and I can’t figure out how to reset myself.
Someone—a fellow human, a muse, or an office staff cat—must set me right. Empty my bin. Snap it back in place. Turn my power off and then back on again. Put me on my charger, please.
So, I right the little robot. Empty her bin. Snap it in place. Turn her off and then back on again and set her on her way. “Good girl, Hazel,” I say as I follow her back to her charger for a pick-me-up. She’ll return to her intended course soon.
I put myself back on the couch with the blanket and unpause the show. Three cats follow soon. We’re back on our charger for the day and will return to the intended course soon…
