Mommie Dearest's Whole New World

Heed my advice. Do not give a person with dementia a cell phone programmed to speed dial your number at the push of one button. If you do, it is entirely possible that every day the person with dementia will discover, anew, they can call you in an instant. Chances are, they will use this new found skill over and over and over. All day. Every day.

This advice was born of my own ill conceived idea to purchase a cell phone for Mommie Dearest so she could have it at the assisted living facility where we recently moved her. 

Live and learn.

For some time now I have been thinking that we needed to move my mom to a higher level of care. Her worsening dementia was making it hard to keep her in an independent living situation. Granted, the facility she was living in was for senior citizens but it was for those who could largely care for themselves. When we moved her to Colorado she was fairly capable of doing so, but over time her independence became more and more of a burden. I knew something needed to change.

During a recent visit with my siblings we decided to pursue an appropriate assisted living facility for our mom. We visited a few facilities and found the place we felt would be just perfect for Mommie Dearest. It had all of the important amenities: staff to administer daily medications, a cook to prepare and serve meals, weekly happy hour with wine. Men.

Or so I thought.

In reality the men aren't very plentiful in this new living arrangement. I was deceived by the man who lives across the hall from my mother, thinking he was representative of a larger male population. Turns out he is one of only two. Honestly though, It doesn't seem to matter that much.  Mommie Dearest has lost some of her zeal for wooing men. It was one of the first signs things were digressing. It was as if she forgot that she liked to be the center of all male attention. She even started forgetting to go to happy hour. Malaise about wooing men and not registering opportunities to guzzle boxed wine from a Styrofoam cup? These were bad signs. 

We took our mom to visit the new residence and she was surprisingly amenable to the idea. She gave it a slightly crooked, arthritic thumbs up and I set a plan in motion.  It all seemed remarkably easy. Until it wasn't. But that's the way it is with Mommie Dearest. One minute things are going along just fine and the next minute we've entered a whole new reality and I haven't recognized the switch. Admittedly, I have a little trouble keeping up.   

Within days of my giving notice that she would be moving out of the independent living facility, staff started mentioning that my mother was telling them she rescinded the notice. I got daily phone calls from her saying that she was not moving and that was that. She dug her heels in. Truth be told, however, she didn't dig very far or fight very hard. In the end, she moved with very little kicking and screaming. Either she forgot she likes to make things as difficult for me as possible or, maybe, like chasing men, she just doesn't have the stamina anymore. I'm not sure.

She's in her new place now, no longer in a two-room apartment but in her own bedroom within a large house. She gets loving care and reminders, all day long, to do the important things like eat lunch and play Bingo. She mentions the sparse male population regularly but it is seemingly more out of habit than any real desire. She doesn't appear to even remember where she lived just days ago. 

I put sticky note reminders all around her room, including one that tells her to press 2 on her cell phone if she wants to call me. Every day she discovers how to call me again. It's a perpetual surprise.

Sometimes I feel guilty that I like this simple-minded Mommie Dearest with her Swiss cheese memory a little better than the narcissistic, mean-spirited woman who raised me. Then I remind myself that guilt is a useless emotion. Feel what you feel. Besides, being with my mom helps with my never ending quest for life balance. Watching her slowly drift away reminds me that everything in life is a cycle. Change is inevitable and constant. Every day I get older. We all do. That's the way it is supposed to be. Holding on to youth is impossible, so I'm learning to embrace aging. Sort of. Most days.

Until my grey roots start showing.

For the most part, I'm thankful for this phase of life with my mother. She, unintentionally, reminds me to live intentionally, and breathe in the life I've been given. I appreciate the lesson. It is good to remember that the problems I'm solving at work, the relationship challenges I'm navigating at home, or the finances that will seemingly never be enough to retire with, are all fleeting. All that truly matters is how I live in the here and now.

I live with intention today, because at some point I too might be discovering the magic of speed dial. All day. Every day.

Politics, Decency, and Rainbow Sprinkles

Thank God for rainbow sprinkles. Everybody knows they make everything better.

Okay, maybe everybody doesn't know that. And maybe they don't make everything better.  But the other day, when I was feeling utterly dismayed, an internal force demanded that I buy frosted donuts with colorful sprinkles.

I complied. It seemed the only reasonable thing to do. 

Last Friday morning, as I readied myself for work, I decided to stop on my way into the office and buy donuts. My staff had been working hard and they were all exceedingly tired. In the world of the college recruiter, the early months of a new year are particularly taxing. Having criss-crossed the United States, attended dozens of college fairs, and talked with thousands of people, I knew my delightful little crew was feeling road weary. They needed a boost and a thank you. But I didn't want to ply only my direct reports with sugar, flour, and fat; I figured everyone in the office would enjoy some tasty, greasy, albeit empty calories.

As I drove to the donut shop I did what I do every morning and turned on my car radio to catch up on the latest news. I listened in horror. Not the kind of horror one feels when something unthinkable happens and lives are lost. Not the kind of horror rendered by vengeful supernatural beings. No, this was a horror provoked by the behavior of political candidates who aspire to lead our country. 

I use the word lead loosely.

I listened in horror as I heard grown men bullying, making fun, chiding, speaking vile and ugly things. Making up lies. Talking over one another. This was the reality TV of politics. And these are the people who want to take over leadership of our country???

There was nothing in their behavior that represents leadership.  Not. One. Thing. Although I rarely think shame is a good or called for emotion, in this case, those men should be ashamed. Deeply. To their core. I fear they aren't ashamed in the least. As I listened to the recorded clips of their appalling public display I was utterly horrified, disgusted, and terribly disheartened. What a degrading display of immaturity. 

Lead our country???

In a world that seems increasingly nasty and rude, where dignity and grace fade into the background of vulgarity, I would hope that the very people who desire positions of leadership would present humility and self-respect. A leader makes the world a better place. Instead this group of men bowed to the antics of the most debased, tasteless, lowest common denominator, demeaned themselves, and demonstrated behavior unsuitable for even the most ill-behaved children. It was sad. It was discouraging. It was coarse and uncivilized and represented everything a leader should not be. 

Listening to the news made me feel desperate. Surely this can't be. Granted many politicians have behaved in less than becoming ways. But this?  This was as inglorious a display as we have ever seen. Surely we are so much better than this.

It was truly disheartening. I stopped at the donut shop and did the only thing I knew to do. I not only bought donuts, I bought the most brightly colored, rainbow sprinkled donuts available. I specified that I wanted the prettiest donuts on the shelf. I watched as the woman behind the counter carefully selected each donut and gingerly placed it in the box. When she picked up one with white frosting and brown chocolate sprinkles I stopped her and asked that she include only the ones with colored sprinkles. I didn't tell her that the world felt very dark and sad and the only thing I could think to do in my moment of despair was to treat my coworkers to something vibrant and celebratory. Not because I celebrated the moronic behavior of the politicians who had so badly degraded themselves and our country, but because it was the only positive thing I could think to do in the moment. I had to do something light to counter their dark, ugly, negative, destructive behavior. Rainbow sprinkles were all I had. 

At work I made a little sign that said, "Have a donut. Because you can. 😊" and left it next to the brilliant display of cheerful little donuts.  A few people thanked me and, although I make it my policy not to discuss politics with anyone outside of my family or my closest and kindest friends, I did mention that the sprinkles were my response to deep sadness I was feeling while looking at the political horizon. 

They all understood.

All of my coworkers; hard working, caring, passionate, kind and decent people, who will never be President of the United States understood why rainbow sprinkles were so important that day. 

Nobody chided me. Nobody bullied me. Or made fun of me. Or talked over me. Nobody lied about me or acted like a belligerent, insecure child. Nobody scattered water around and mocked me for sweating. They all had compassion for my despair. And they all said thank you.

Because they are decent human beings.

The People's Princess

I've made a lot of mistakes in my parenting years. Too many to count. While I don't particularly want to list them all right here, I will confess my most recent faux pas. In my defense, I didn't maim anyone or destroy their psyche. All I did was laugh. Loudly.

It was a Sunday evening and I was sitting outside on the sidewalk watching the lunar eclipse drape the moon in a dark red hue. They call it a blood moon, although frankly, if I saw someone with blood that color, I'd be pretty concerned.  Nevertheless, it was a beautiful evening. Anna had texted me a couple of times and I had responded with truly stupid comments such as, "What? There is a lunar eclipse in Nebraska too??" and, "Tell me what happens next since your eclipse is an hour ahead." These were done for comedic effect and because I often forget to take life seriously. I'd say I'd try harder to approach life more soberly, but let's face it, I won't. 

Anyway, just about the time the entire moon was shrouded in darkness, my cell phone rang. It was Anna telling me she had just found out, by being sprayed with Silly String, she was nominated for college homecoming royalty. I laughed. She says I cackled but that is such an unattractive word. I prefer to think of it as a melodic and charming lilt.

Alright fine. I cackled.

The whole thing seemed uproariously funny. It had never occurred to me that she would be nominated for homecoming royalty. I associate such things with popularity contests, and being popular has never been something Anna aspired to. She desires to be well liked, a good leader, to learn new things, and expand her horizons, but being the popular girl has never much mattered. The irony of it made me....cackle, I guess.

Anna relentlessly drives herself to achieve. This is the girl who, in third grade, having been in home school up to that point, calmly requested that she go to public school because she didn't think I was teaching her enough. When she started public school she wouldn't be content unless enrolled in advanced courses. This is the girl who, at the end of middle school insisted on applying for the IB program in high school despite her parent's recommendation that she relax and enjoy herself. And the girl who, upon turning 16, went out and got a job even though we told her we thought her courses were challenging enough she didn't need an outside job. She worked 20-hours a week, completed the IB program, and made it all look quite breezy. We never worried about her going out and being wild. She didn't rebel that way. She just quietly went about doing what she wanted; none of which involved being popular or the center of attention.

But there she was. Covered in Silly String.

It probably goes without saying that for a young woman who is relatively shy, being homecoming royalty felt a little uneasy. Nevertheless, Anna handled it with typical poise and aplomb. When, at the Friday evening dinner she was crowned Homecoming Princess I tried very hard not to cackle. 

Wearing the cute little crown would have been funny enough, but shortly after the coronation came the realization that she was going to have to be in the homecoming parade the following morning, riding in a convertible and undoubtedly having to do that weird waving thing. This was followed by the realization that the homecoming prince had football warm ups and wouldn't be able to join her.  

Riding in a convertible. By herself. Doing the princess wave. This was definitely not her thing.

To make the parade easier and more fun for her, Parker agreed to help out in typical Griggs fashion by holding the prince's head on a stick and standing in. 

More grace fell on the reluctant princess when, just as it was time for the royalty motorcade to commence, the battery on the shiny red Jaguar died and Anna and Parker were left to walk, providing a much more 'down to earth' style, far more suited to this particular royal couple than regally riding. 

Following the outgoing, stiletto heeled homecoming queen and the equally heeled incoming homecoming queen, both in convertible chariots, came the People's Princess, walking in flat boots and handing out candy.

I'm extraordinarily proud of what Anna has quietly and steadfastly accomplished thus far in life. Going to another state for college wasn't easy for her homebody self, but her soul knew it was where she belonged. While there she has bravely embraced new experiences and relationships and academics, but I believe it is her quiet, compassionate, and dedicated leadership that most prompted her peers to vote for her to wear a sparkly sash and tiara. 

It turns out being voted homecoming royalty wasn't about popularity. It was about leadership. And for that Anna deserved every vote.

I probably shouldn't have cackled.

Our Lady of Perpetual Winking

I'm not trying to brag, but my sweet little cattle dog knows how to wink. I don't think this is a typical dog trick. I mean, I don't know that many dogs who can wink on command. I'm pretty proud of her. She's come a long way from homeless and pregnant puppy on death row, to rescue dog, to being put under house arrest, to trained winker.

Look at my cute wink!

Unless I'm lying.

Which I might be.

Okay fine. She winks. But it isn't exactly by choice.

A couple of months ago I was getting ready for work on a Friday morning and noticed that Sadie's right eye looked odd. It appeared cloudy and swollen but it was dark in the house and I just thought it was one of those weird glowing animal eye things. I wasn't concerned. A while later Anna mentioned it and after looking carefully at Sadie's eye and seeing that it was in fact cloudy and swollen, I asked Steve if he could take her to the veterinarian to get it checked. Later that day they came home with an eye infection diagnosis and some antibiotic salve. The next morning Sadie's eye looked better. I thought that was the end of it.

By Tuesday, though, her eye looked odd again and she started acting like she felt poorly. Thinking she must have a nasty eye infection, I took her back to the veterinarian expecting to get a different, more powerful antibiotic ointment. What I got, however, was a diagnosis of rapid onset glaucoma. The veterinarian declared her left eye blind and said her right eye wasn't far behind. Unbeknown to me, glaucoma is excruciatingly painful and his next statement took my breath away. The only way to eliminate her suffering was to remove her beautiful, albeit now swollen, cloudy, and blind, brown eye. 

Remove her eye? Is that called that an 'eyeectomy? My dog has to have her EYE removed??

Despite her teen pregnancy and brushes with death and the law, I do love this little dog. Nevertheless, I brokenheartedly asked the vet if it would be more merciful to put her down. I didn't want to do it, but I also didn't want her to suffer. Without hesitation he said, "Oh no, dogs have no vanity. They use their sense of smell and hearing much more than sight anyway. She'll be fine." He then instructed me to drive across town to a dog opthamologist. And to get there as soon as I could. I didn't even know such a specialty existed but apparently rapid onset glaucoma takes the rapid part of its name seriously, so I loaded my suffering dog into the car and weaved my way through rush hour traffic to the dog opthomologist. There I met a kind and gentle spirited doctor who confirmed the veterinarian's diagnosis and instructed me to have Sadie's blind eye removed as soon as possible.

The next morning I dropped my sweet little half-blind puppy off for surgery.

My poor puppy.

Unable to fathom what post-surgery would look like (pun intended, I guess) I picked her up after work with some trepidation. I was surprised, however. Except for her rather gruesome appearance and the large plastic cone around her neck, she seemed just fine. She was excited to see me, at least with her one remaining eye, and greeted me with tail wagging and excited dancing. To my amazement, her healing and recovery were swift and speedy. Sadie didn't seem to care about how she looked. I'm fairly certain if I had to have my eye removed I'd be far less gracious about the whole thing.

The opthamologist assures us that Sadie will go blind in the remaining eye, although we are hoping to avoid having to remove it. We give her eye drops twice a day to slow the progression of glaucoma. She's pretty compliant with the whole routine, knowing she gets a treat after each drop. I made up a little song and dance we perform before each treatment. It pretty much involves her jumping around the kitchen while I dance and sing. The words are:

Do the one-eyed doggy dance.
Do the one-eyed doggy dance.
Do the one-eyed doggy dance.
Do the one-eyed doggy dance.
Do the one.....

...well, you get the idea. Now that I type it, I guess it isn't the most creative thing I've ever come up with. The tune is catchy, though. You'll have to trust me.

Anyway, our one-eyed doggy doesn't seem to know she only has one eye. Life for her is just wrestling with cats, sleeping on the couch, going for walks, and getting lavished with love.

Which I guess is her purpose.

Adopting Sweet Sadie feels a lot like a marriage. For better, for worse. In sickness and health. 'Till death do us part. We had no idea what we were getting into but we are in it for the long haul.

Because she's not just our dog. She's our family.

A Reason to Live

I have never kissed someone without teeth.

Pucker up, honey!
(Source: Google Images)

I'm just putting this out as a public service announcement since my mother felt compelled to ask me about it last week. Maybe others want to know.

Mommie Dearest turned 87 a couple of months ago, and these days life is getting more difficult. Not because her health is failing, but because she doesn't have anyone to kiss. Nobody to flirt with. No elderly 'boyfriend.' A fact she bemoans to me at every opportunity.

What is the point of living?

As her July birthday approached I contemplated what to give her. It's hard to know what a woman who has outlived two husbands, several 'boyfriends,' her entire family of origin, a boatload of friends and acquaintances, and had more than a few brushes with death could want. Unable to come up with a gift to wrap, I decided this year I would give her the gift of service. I had been noticing that her apartment was taking on that suspiciously chaotic look of a hoarder. Because, in fact...she is a hoarder. Every time I mentioned that we needed to clean her apartment she would say, "Oh yes, we do. But I don't want to throw anything away!" So really now, what's the point of that?

One day I stopped by to see her and after knocking on the door I heard her say, "Just a minute," followed immediately by an alarming 'thud.' Next she yelled, "I just fell," and I took off running to find someone who could unlock her apartment. When I entered, she was on the floor but seemed unhurt. I picked her up, put her in her chair, and after a few minutes told her I wanted to see if she could stand. In her crankiest voice she said, "Oh I'm fine."  I insisted she stand up. Then, I told her I needed to see if she could walk. At this she got very irritated and in her best 13-year old smart ass voice said, "There. See. I can walk," while shuffling along, wiggling her butt, and doing a little dance.

She was fine.

The fall made me realize that her apartment had become a danger zone and I could no longer avoid conflict by not cleaning. On the other hand, trying to clean while she insisted I not throw anything away had the potential to make me contemplate pushing her down. Since I would prefer to avoid elder abuse I knew I needed a plan. Fortunately Anna Queen of Planning, was home for summer and concocted a strategy whereby Steve, who basically deserves sainthood, would take Mommie Dearest to lunch and shopping while we stayed behind to clean. Perfect. She'd have to choose between making sure we didn't throw away grocery lists from 2010, junk mail, and crushed packets of saltine crackers, or shopping, which is her favorite activity following flirting. And kissing. Oh, and drinking wine. Whatever.  We had this.

While Steve and my mother dined and shopped, Anna and I cleaned and discarded. We scrubbed, and vacuumed, and organized until finally, tired and dirty, we plugged in a sweet smelling air freshener; our denouement. Moments later Steve and Mommie Dearest returned. I was concerned that she would be upset about all the things we had removed. She didn't even notice. She was so excited about the over sized purse Steve had bought her she could think of nothing else. The purse was way too big for her bony, arthritic shoulders to carry but that didn't matter. She had something new. And something new meant she might not be too old. And not being too old meant she might be able to attract a man. 

A reason to live.

A few days ago I went to see her and asked how she was feeling. A stomach virus had made her ill in the days prior. She said she was bored. The boyfriend thing again. I asked how she was feeling physically. She said she was fine. But bored. No available men. She pointed around the room and said, "Just look at what I have to choose from!"  She proceeded to point to a nearby man, and said, "That one doesn't even have any teeth!" Imagine that, I thought...she does have standards.  Nevertheless, I suggested she stop being mean. Ignoring me, she kept repeating it and finally said, loudly, "Have you ever kissed someone with no teeth??"   No, I assured her, I had not kissed someone without teeth. Maybe someday. But not yet.

It's been a while since Mommie Dearest has had a steady beau. I guess when you're 87 and insist your guy has chompers you limit the field a bit. Regardless, I'm sure there's someone out there for her. Someone to play a very old Rhett to her walker laden Scarlett. It probably won't be long before she crooks her gnarled up little finger with its long, red acrylic nail at some unsuspecting bachelor and nabs him.  Then she can commence flirting. Kissing. Drinking wine.

And living. 

Youthful Foot Folly

My left foot is getting old. I know that seems a bit odd since, presumably, my left foot is the same age as the rest of my body. Knit in my mother's womb and all that. But for whatever reason, my left foot seems to be getting old faster than any other part of my body. It troubles me with a variety of aches and pains which, no doubt, can be traced back to when I was in my 20s. 

In those days I didn't think about middle-aged pain. My fashion awareness dictated that my wardrobe  include several pair of cute and colorful high-heeled pumps. No sensible one-inch heels for me, thank you.  Put the emphasis on 'high.'

Turns out all that stuff they tell you about the perils of pitching your body forward and standing on your toes all day is right.  Your feet develop a slow but seething hatred. Of shoes. Of walking. And most particularly...of you.

I started noticing this pedial rebellion a couple of years ago when, in the morning, my left foot would ache through my first waking steps. Over time my daily walks started to induce numb toes and throbbing arches. Next, I acknowledged that wearing heels was causing pain far more intense than the younger me had grown accustomed to. When I started looking at footwear with a wary eye toward the level of pain it would cause, and opted for flats instead, I knew I was in trouble. 

After attempting a variety of home remedies for my ever increasing pain, I eventually decided to consult a physician.  I generally don't find much point in going to a doctor for the simple stuff.  I figure I'm just as capable of guessing what is wrong as they are, but when things get more complicated, I acquiesce. Medical professionals have fancy machines that see below the surface and, since I possess neither x-ray vision nor the equipment for such a sophisticated view, I opted to make an appointment. 

Turns out my left foot has a number of issues. Whatever can cause pain, my foot pretty much has. Bunions.  A pesky Morton's neuroma. Some run of the mill arthritis. And a little plantar fasciitis for good measure.

Okay, so that explains the pain. I asked about a remedy. The doctor recommended I change my footwear to no heels, a wide toe box, and sturdy soles.

Geepers, that sounds attractive. What's the point in having feet if you can't wear cute shoes? 

Eventually though, I had to get realistic. It's not like hobbling around on cranky old feet is all that fetching. I went on the Internet and started researching shoes to match the criteria. There wasn't much. It seems few shoe manufacturers are concerned about healthy feet. And those who are have very underdeveloped stylistic sensibilities.  

Goodbye fashion.

Hello Grandma.

I ordered these in every color.

Hot, sexy mama shoes

There's a moral to this story, of course. Don't be foolish. Be practical and follow the advice of wise old crones who tell you to consider the future. Your feet will thank you.

Nevertheless, would the 50-something me advise the 20-something me to forgo fashionable footwear in deference to later consequences? Probably not.

Would the 20-something me listen to the 50-something me? Assuredly not.

Because there is also an Epicurean moral. Wear heels when you're young...because you can.

I don't regret my youthful choice of colorful stilettos. Granted, in retrospect it wasn't very smart. But smart can be over-rated. There is something to be said for choosing whimsy over practical. Cute over boring. Fuchsia over brown. Was choosing fashion over pragmatism the brightest decision I could have made?  Of course not. But it sure was fun. Besides, some of my foot complications might have happened anyway. Plenty of men who never wore high heels have similar issues. I wouldn't change a thing.

Eat, drink, and wear cute shoes for tomorrow we get bunions.

My Maid is a Robot

Before you read any further I think you should be forewarned. This is a story about a vacuum cleaner. It's not a product review or anything like that. Just a story about a vacuum cleaner.

Okay, so it isn't really a vacuum cleaner, its a sweeper. A small robotic sweeper that churns and spins and somehow feels like a little worker bee family member.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

We bought our little sweeper a couple of months ago when our large lumbering tank of a vacuum cleaner finally decided it had sucked up its last fluffy cat hair. Realistically I think it had made that decision quite some time ago but I kept pushing it, literally, to go on living. I mean its purpose in life was sucking up stuff. But it got tired. Things stopped working like they were supposed to. Some of its parts started inching toward the ground. 

Wait...maybe I'm thinking of myself.

Anyway, the point is, the vacuum cleaner was done. It had lived its life. Nearly 25-years ago, when we first bought our house, Steve's father bought it for us. It was nice and sturdy and heavy duty. So heavy duty, in fact, carrying it up and down the stairs felt similar to hauling a small adult up and down the stairs. It did its job, cheerfully, I assume, sucking up the various and sundry messes created by the  ever increasing occupants of our little house. 

I vacuumed a lot in those days. Not because I particularly liked vacuuming but because I particularly didn't like seeing things on the carpet that weren't part of the carpet. Kids. Animals. Life. Things just got messy. A lot.  

The kids are gone now and our house doesn't get so messy anymore. The orignial carpet is long gone too, but we still have lots of animals. Lots of animals who shed lots of hair that collects in rodent-like clumps and tufts in corners of the unforgiving wood floors. When the albatross of a vacuum cleaner died recently I decided to buy one of those little robot doodads. My plan was to program it to run every day just before I got home from work.  That way the various wads of pet hair would be all gone before I walked in the door.  Like having a maid. Only without the guilt. 

(Source: Google Images)

We brought the robot home and turned it on. It was sort of fascinating. Mesmerizing, in fact. It spun and whirred and criss crossed around the room while we just watched. After about an hour it decided it was finished, headed back to its charger, docked itself, and turned itself off.  

Weird.

The robot sweeper does its job every day now. Being home while it runs is a little disconcerting. I constantly feel that I'm getting in its way. I apologize. One day Charles came over when we were preparing to have guests for brunch and the robot was doing its thing. I asked Charles to set the table and as he did so he kept shrieking that the robot was following him.  I told him he was being ridiculous.  But it sort of seemed like he was right.

Occasionally I come home from work to find the robot hasn't found its way back to the dock but has instead done battle with an electrical cord, a dog leash, or some other erroneous hazard and shut itself off mid-sweep.  When this happens I speak kindly to it, disentangle it, and gently put it back in its dock, all the while assuming it feels badly for not completing the task. 

Except, of course, I don't have to apologize for getting in its way, it wasn't chasing Charles, and it doesn't feel bad when it shuts itself off.  It doesn't have the capacity for human emotion. Its a ROBOT.

My little robot can spin around the house all day but never once will it feel unappreciated. I can get in its way while its running and it simply changes course without ever feeling I'm being rude. When I find it in a predicament and safely return it to its dock it hasn't ever uttered, 'thank you.' No matter how much anthropomorphism I attach to it, in the end its just a device.  It does its job (well, I might add) but nothing more. 

I suppose it seems pretty crazy to write a story about a robotic gizmo scurrying around my house. It is. But I'm thankful for the way it makes my life easier and I figure its always good to be thankful.  And a little crazy.