And no, I don’t mean tequila. Or reds or whatever Mick was referring to in that song from my golden youth. I mean a Roomba.
We have a Roomba automatic vacuum. It’s a refurb and a tiny bit quirky. I blogged about it before, when it was trying to run away. I think it’s gotten used to us because it hasn’t tried to escape lately. I haven’t yet created a little French maid’s outfit for it, but I will.
So, every day it runs around the house every day cleaning up after us. When we empty the filter every day, it’s crammed with dog hair. Mostly Goober’s. We could build a new dog every week with the discards.
I think the roomba may be mad at the dogs over this. I caught it going down the hall, chasing after the hairy perps:
Poor Lewi, he doesn’t even shed, but I guess the Roomba thinks a dog is a dog is a dog. He leapt over it and went the other way. Sissy is down the hall a little further [farther? I can measure it …] and she just layed [laid? lie? Fuck, where are the grammar police when I need them?] there until the Roomba hit her and turned around. Really. Apparently they’ve done this before and Sissy doesn’t chicken out. Goober, the main offender, took off for the other room when it started toward him. For a big scary dog, he’s an awful pussy when push comes to shove.
The only camera I could find was my old Treo, so the picture sucks, but it’s slightly better than no picture.