Criminal Intent

I don’t know. I’m beginning to think she’s possessed. Or maybe she has a drinking problem. They bragged to me about her ‘thoughtful intelligence,’  but I’m not buying it. I’ve spent a lot of time watching her work and she is neither thoughtful nor intelligent. At best I’d describe her as an idiot savant and, at worst, simply an idiot.

Yesterday I gave these clear instructions: “Go.”

I removed every obstacle in her way.

I closed doors to areas where she didn’t have the proper clearances.

It was such an easy job, even I could have done it. It could not have been a more straight-forward assignment, but in her defense, I suppose that makes me a slow learner.

Leaving her to her work, I disappeared into my office to write in peace and relative quiet. And then I got hungry. I wandered into the kitchen and glanced around the great room, relieved at the nice job she was doing. Until I looked down and there, at my feet, lay a turd. I mean, it looked like a turd. If I owned a dog. Which I don’t. All I own is an iRobot.

I’d be better off with a dog.

Suddenly, I wasn’t hungry anymore. With a wave of dread, I looked beyond the sofa and there, lying crushed beneath the small table where she’s normally on display, lay my prayer plant. Gutted. Her earthen insides spilled out across the floor from one end to the other in a scene so macabre, its only saving grace was the way the grisly image was confined to being black and pearlite white.

“Oh, no,” I gasped, racing to her side. “What has she done to you?”

I didn’t even have to ask. I knew who was behind this.

Gingerly, I lifted the desecrated shrub from where she’d fallen and assessed the damage. Her leaves were still green. That had to be good. She must still be getting oxygen. Nothing appeared to be broken. She wasn’t leaking any fluid. Still, her potting soil was spread across the LVP flooring all the way to the laundry room, tire tracks telling the entire tragic story. My Calathea Rattlesnake Prayer Plant had been brutalized, and I knew exactly who the culprit was.

From the other side of the room a happy hum floated through the air, and I swear I heard a satisfied little burp.

Roomba. The criminal.

This time I had undisputable evidence. Prayer plants don’t jump off tables to their deaths without some kind of nefarious help. It wouldn’t be spiritual. I could picture the whole incident in my mind. Roomba bashing again and again into the hairpin legs of the little wooden table, relentless, vicious, jealous of the care I occasionally give to an innocent potted plant.

Oh, the humanity.

“Murderer!” I yelled across the great room as Roomba scurried away. “El Diablo!” I followed up, as she bounced off the legs of my piano. “El stupido!” I shouted at the mechanical vacuum who only speaks Spanish. I hurried to the kitchen sink for a damp sponge to clean up the dirty mess as Roomba raced across the room to add insult to injury.

“Oh, no you don’t,” I snarled, my voice falling to levels my children would have recognized as terrifyingly subhuman. It always worked on them, but they have souls. All Roomba has are computer chips and attitude. I grabbed at her handle just before she plowed into the wounded foliage again, aiming her in the opposite direction. She swirled around and took another swipe at the sainted victim of her malevolence. “Cannibal!” I screamed in horror, lunging at her off switch just in the nick of time.

Out of breath, I sank down on my sofa and surveyed the damage. This was war. And I was outnumbered.

I don’t know why I put up with her except that I don’t want to do the vacuuming myself. She’s inept. And she needs ESL training. I mean, if you live and work in this country, you should also speak the language. I need a translator whenever she sucks up one of my drapes and screams at me in her native tongue from across the house. I don’t know what she’s yelling about—I never took high school Spanish. I studied French.

I’m in over my head here. I’ve talked to other Roomba owners and I think, in general, it’s obvious we need to form a support group. One man told me his iRobot walked right off the job without explanation, drove into its micro-garage and never worked again. No coaxing or plea agreements could get it to come out. There’s another story gone viral about a Roomba that intentionally ran over a pile of fresh dog poo and, the next morning, the poor owner woke up to what he could only describe as a poopocalypse.

I’ve heard enough. I’ve seen enough. I don’t need any more evidence or dire warnings. I’m not going to be held hostage to a rotund robot who is an obvious terrorist any longer. I hate to do it but the jig is up. My plants have given me an ultimatum—it’s them or her.

It’s not even a contest. I bought a basic iRobot model who came with glowing reviews written by residents of Mexico praising her fondness for animal fur. Maybe she’s been yelling at me the whole time because I don’t have any dog hair around for her to eat. Something got lost in translation and I think it was the word for “houseplant.”

It doesn’t matter anymore. Roomba has been outed by my surviving potted plants, three to one, and they want her gone. They even have a message for her. They're tired of being depotted. Time for her to be deported. 

Hasta la vista, baby.