I never thought it would be possible to love an inanimate object as dearly as I do, but the sad truth is my new Roomba vacuum has completely sucked me in. As soon as I hear the electronic beeps heralding the start of its latest rounds, I experience a surge of joy and run to bow before it as I clear its path.

Sure, I’ve had a traditional vacuum for decades, but that oh-so-last-century invention involves lifting it up the stairs, finding a convenient place to plug it in (often involving removal of another plug), and then engaging in an aerobic workout. As my back began to complain increasingly in recent years, the collection of crumbs on the kitchen floor multiplied exponentially courtesy of the lengthening intervals between cleanings. Those neglected morsels representing a life well-lived were becoming a source of self-reproach, amplified by the humiliation of hearing the shameful crunching emanating from underfoot. I needed a new solution.

The idea of purchasing a Roomba took hold of me like an obsession – once I had decided there was one in my future, there was no going back. I consulted friends, read reviews, and checked various websites daily for sale prices. Finally, the fateful moment arrived: I found an older model on clearance and, combined with my Canadian Tire money, bought it for a ridiculously reduced but still outrageous price. Welcome to your forever home, Roomba!

The arrival of this gadget ushered a brave new world into our household. Until this point, my family and I had studiously avoided “the internet of things.” You won’t find Alexa, web-enabled dimmable lighting or a video doorbell at our house. I didn’t want anything to be hackable nor did I want to be spied on by my household appliances. And yet, this item has been invited in with open arms. I guess love forgives – or at least overlooks – all things.

Integration has been an ongoing challenge, mostly for the Roomba. For, as I have discovered, it still needs human intervention. To date, it has almost-but-not-quite hurled itself off the top step leading into the basement and somehow couldn’t find its way back from the precipice. On other occasions, it has gotten marooned on the high-pile carpet or stuck under the banister. Cords are not its friend either. Perhaps it lacks some sense of self-preservation or else its kamikaze dedication to dust collection outstrips its abilities to anticipate imminent danger. In any event, it does need to be “rescued” regularly.

Our cat has also had to make accommodations. It seems she realizes this moving creature is neither fish nor foul, but it defies categorization in her limited lexicon. I have watched her observing this whirling object, torn between fight or flight. Retreat has become her go-to strategy, as she climbs to a higher level where she can watch the Roomba’s meanderings from a safe vantage point. Once the entertainment value has diminished, she hightails it to a quieter place for a nap.

Much to our dismay, we have discovered that our Roomba appears to have a stubborn streak – it has a decided preference for cleaning the kitchen, when we would rather it venture into the front hall occasionally. Perhaps it knows something we don’t? Nonetheless, we bend it to our will, penning it into the hall with closed doors and strategically placed chairs to “force” it into the behaviour we would like. Realizing it has been outmanoeuvred, it obediently does its duty. On one occasion, we set it loose in our bedroom, where it mowed down the thick layer of dust under our bed. We slept soundly that night, knowing that the floor beneath us was no longer infested with dust bunnies.

After it has completed its rounds, my husband and I, like anxious parents toilet training their little one, huddle over the garbage bag to see what treasure the Roomba has brought home to us in its dirt reservoir – popcorn kernels, dropped pills, cat treats, fallen dinner detritus, and amorphous fuzz. We hypothesize and debate about why the dust looks more grey than white today – perhaps our black cat is shedding more than usual? Then I check the app to see how many “dirt events” the Roomba has encountered. These reports serve as a feedback loop on our daily lives. Finally, we remove the filter and lovingly wash it to keep our new baby in optimal health.

So why has this newcomer proven so alluring? Certainly, I find this dust dervish far more satisfying than the dishwasher or clothes dryer. It could be the novelty factor – the standard labour-saving devices are old hat. Or perhaps the fact that I do not need to lift a finger to operate it is appealing – no lifting, loading or unloading. More likely is that we are charmed by its unpredictable personality. Then again, it may be more prosaic – my back is happier, and my floors are mostly crumb-free.

In the end, I remain enamoured with the new appliance in my life. Conventional wisdom states that you can’t buy happiness. I disagree. By purchasing our new Roomba, money has indeed made my world go around.

NOTE: An edited version of this essay was published in The Globe and Mail newspaper on March 14, 2025. Click here to read it on their site.