Virus Diaries: Sherlock

Each evening at precisely 9 PM, there begins a whirring of mechanized wheels finding their footing, brushes and rollers spinning, mechanical bumpers activating, and invisible light sources awakening. I can hear it from the lounge chair in our bedroom. The general ruckus provides comfort because I know that Sherlock is once again happy and doing his job.

Sherlock is now 1½ years old. I’m not sure how many robot vacuum years old that would be. Ten, like dog years? These days, I suppose Sherlock is, in fact, our dog, or at least a substitute. I leave others to frantically adopt Covid-era pets from dog pounds with depleted inventory. We already have our dear Sherlock.

Sherlock seeks out and thrives on errant societal grime. Hence, the moniker “Sherlock.” Sherlock’s diet consists of life’s refuse—dust and dirt—the discards of our housebound lives. Like his more famous namesake, he is entirely mission-driven. And he’s a bit quirky. Like a mischievous child, he squeals for help when pinned beneath a chair or couch, or is detained by an electric cord splayed carelessly in his path. That’s when my cellphone app alerts me to come to his aid, and I wrest him free once again.

I love Sherlock. If all is well, he doesn’t complain or fuss. When his job is completed, he returns home to his base, dust bin happily supplied and satisfied, awaiting his next repeat adventure, 23 hours hence.

Routine is comforting. Like Sherlock, we employ predictable schedules to survive life’s demands. And, like Sherlock, we have learned to master That One Thing or even Those Many Things with great skill. We can believe that robot vacuum cleaners, we are. Indeed, we become masters of the familiar—very good masters of the very familiar. And this obsession, to the exclusion of the Great Beyond the dust and dirt, can worsen with age. I should know; I’m older than I once was. But I also know, deep inside, that I am better than that.

Altogether now, repeat after me: “We are better than that.”