Musing: Lost in Fur: Tech Gone Wrong

We live in an age of technological marvels designed to make our lives easier. When I walk into my study, I only need to say, “She Who Shall Not Be Named, lights on.” And about 60% of the time, the lights actually turn on. The other 40%? They might flicker in another room, refuse to cooperate altogether, or—if I’m especially unlucky—illuminate my neighbor’s house instead.

Oh, and if you’re wondering, no, my smart home device is not “She Who Shall Not Be Named.” No, I use that ever present, ever-listening device from Amazon called Alex… Well, I can’t say her name. If I do, my lights will go on or off. And if you are listening to this as a podcast or through YouTube, I would be apologizing for turning your lights out.

But today, we’re not here to talk about lights. Nor about the omnipresent, ever-listening household assistant who shall remain nameless. No, we’re here to discuss robovacs—the brave little soldiers that roll across my floors in a valiant but doomed attempt to keep up with the relentless shedding of my Siberian Huskies.

For the uninitiated, let me explain. A Siberian Husky is nature’s perfect fur producing organism. A single husky can shed more than its body weight of excess hair every day. Since I always tell you that my stories are 100% true except for the parts I make up, you know you can trust me on this fact.

But I don’t have one Siberian Husky. Four—yes, four—live under this roof. Daily vacuuming is required or I would need to rent excavation equipment from time to time.

That explains why I’ve gone through so many robovacs. Technically, I haven’t killed them—my dogs have. I just bring the robovacs home as an offering, like a well-meaning but misguided cultist, and let the inevitable play out.

Most recently, another robovac bit the dust. Which, for a vacuum, feels a particularly ironic expression for its demise.

I performed emergency surgery: removed the rollers, untangled fur from its gears, replaced the filter. Still nothing. So, I went deeper. Removed the protective shield, examined its tiny mechanical innards, and performed vacuum CPR, complete with desperate resuscitation attempts and whispered last rites.

Nothing. Which sucks. Or, considering this a vacuum failing to do its job, doesn’t suck.

Things escalated. I unscrewed all eleventy-seven bajillion screws holding the contraption together, cleared the suction path, and finally pried open the “sealed” motor casing. Supposedly sealed. Inside, I found enough husky fur to build a new dog. Once de-furred, I put it back together, minus a few leftover screws that I still have no idea where they were supposed to go.

Not surprisingly, she remained unresponsive. The dogs rejoiced. Realizing I was once again at risk of drowning in Siberian tumbleweeds, I ordered a replacement.

Over the years, I’ve tried every brand—some you’ve heard of, many you haven’t. This time, I went with a big-name model. Not naming names, of course. They’re not sponsoring this, and quite frankly, after hearing this story, they probably never will. Nor do I particularly enjoy lawsuits. Let’s call this the Dumbo 2000.

When it arrived on our doorstep, we unboxed it with excitement. Dual rollers! A powerful motor! Even a mopping attachment!

The debris container, however, gave me pause. It seemed of a sufficient size for a household with no pets. Or maybe a gerbil or two in heavy shedding season. But for controlling the fur production of four Siberian Huskies? I had doubts.

Nevertheless, we pressed forward. Downloaded the Dumbo 2000 app to my phone. Created an account and an impossible to crack password, in the event some hacker tried to overtake my house by appliance. Connected the robovac to Wi-Fi—successfully, after only seven tries of typing the equally complicated password for my home’s internet.

After ensuring the smart device was connected to its global overlords, I sent the robovac on its grand initial mapping expedition. For the next hour, it zigzagged through rooms, shooing dogs from their napping spots. Then, my phone pinged with a new message: Mapping Complete.

With excitement, I opened the newly created map on my phone. It vaguely resembled a house. Like my crayon creations in kindergarten. It was missing only the chimney with the squiggly lines of smoke curling into the blue sky with a yellow sun.

Still, if I squinted and tilted my head, I could almost see our home’s layout. Roughly, it had the shapes for the kitchen, dining room, den, and my office, the four key rooms of the main floor of our house. I helpfully labeled each room in the app, assigned cleaning zones, and dispatched Dumbo 2000 on its maiden voyage to vacuum a single room. My study. Where the dogs hang out most days while I dutifully scribble entertaining stories like this one.

Thirty minutes passed. A ding came from my phone. An urgent message from Dumbo 2000. Bin Full.

Fair enough. We had skipped a few days of fur harvest while awaiting a replacement vacuum. I emptied the bin, restarted the Dumbo 2000, and sent it on its merry way.

About thirty minutes later, my phone buzzed again. Job done. And bin full.

With trepidation, I traipsed to my study for inspection. Four sets of paws scurried along to join me on my mission. Surprisingly, the floor looked clean. I celebrated. The dogs complained. And sprinkled magic Siberian fur in their wake. But at least we all knew the Dumbo 2000 was a keeper, despite the newly deposited tufts of hair wafting about.

A few days in, though, Dumbo 2000 started exhibiting… quirks. When I received one of its many notices that its bin was full and needed emptying, I went to its assigned room. Despite a thorough search under furniture, I couldn’t find it.

No worries. The mapping software would show me exactly where it was. I grabbed my phone and pulled up the map. Which reported the Dumbo 2000 was currently sitting in the front yard.

Now that’s a head scratcher. First of all, the doors were closed. More importantly, the Dumbo 2000 was not an outdoor model. I suspected an error in the mapping.

Broadening my search throughout the main floor, I finally located the robovac cowering under the kitchen table. Maybe it was shirking its duties. Perhaps it was begging not to be asked to go back into battle. It’s even possible I foiled an elaborate prison break.

All I knew was the kitchen was not the front yard. Nor was it the room Dumbo 2000 was supposed to be cleaning. Which left the most likely explanation that Dumbo 2000’s vaunted mapping software might have a few quirks.

Over the next several days, a distinct pattern emerged. Every other mission, Dumbo got lost. The map on my phone began displaying phantom rooms that did not exist and would require an architect, contractor, and building permits to create.

In desperation, I reset the system. Asked it to retrain itself. Despite these requests, Dumbo 2000 continued to wander my halls, as lost and confused as a high school freshman on the first day of school.

Whatever problems it had finding its place on this earth, it never failed to cry out every half hour, “Bin Full. Help me. I’m choking.”

I surrendered. Dumbo 2000 was exiled to the upstairs guest bedrooms. The dogs don’t go there—at least, not often. Occasionally, a freshly made guest bed proves too tempting for a canine nap, but overall, the upstairs is a gentler battlefield for the vac. If it got lost, we would find it in due time. No harm could come to it, at least as long as it didn’t mistake the steps down to the main floor as a hallway to safety from marauding canines.

The older model from upstairs, not of the Dumbo brand, was brought downstairs and asked to do its best. It’s dutifully wheezing and limping in its attempts to keep the fur forest thinned. For what it lacks in fancy, it makes up with scrappy.

Thinking my saga was complete, I settled into my freshly vacuumed office and pulled up my emails. The Dumbo company had sent me an offer. The message, I kid you not, read, “Need accident protection? For a small fee, we’ve got you covered. We’ll provide you with a replacement robot if you ever need one.”

I eyed the stairs. The dogs studied me. The Dumbo 2000 whirred nervously. Maybe insurance wasn’t such a bad idea.