The Bissell Learned Something About Loyalty

The Bissell Pet Hair Eraser arrived on a Tuesday in a box that promised everything. Cordless. Lightweight. Made for the exact problem we have, which is a dog that sheds like he's being paid per follicle. BW set it up in the corner of the kitchen. I understood what it was for. I was ready to respect it.

The first week went fine. The Bissell got used exactly as intended. It hummed. It collected dog hair. It was, by all reasonable measures, solving the problem it had been designed to solve. There was a small moment of pride, I think. A sense of purpose. The Bissell was good at its job.

Then the child discovered it.

Not the function of it. The form of it. The handle. The weight. The way it could be held like a lightsaber if you were seven and had recently watched Star Wars for the seventeenth time. The Bissell didn't ask for this. It was sitting in its corner, waiting for dog hair, and instead it became a prop in something much larger and more chaotic than pet maintenance.

By Thursday it had a name. By Friday the child had convinced herself the Bissell was actually a weapon that belonged to a character I have never heard of. By Sunday it had been left on the back patio during a thunderstorm. (I found it Wednesday. It still works. This matters to the Bissell, I think.)

The real damage came when BW asked me to actually use it for its intended purpose. I plugged it in. Walked to where the dog was sleeping. The motor kicked on and the dog looked at me like I had betrayed him personally. He ran. The Bissell chased the problem away before it could even begin. This was somehow worse. The Bissell was doing its job perfectly, but the job itself was now causing what it was designed to prevent. The dog sheds more when he's stressed. The Bissell created the very problem it was meant to solve.

It sits in the corner now. Still cordless. Still lightweight. Still made for exactly this purpose. BW hasn't said anything about it not working. It works fine. The dog sheds anyway, everywhere, all the time, because now he's nervous about the sound.

The Bissell did everything it was supposed to do. It's just that nobody told it that doing what you're designed to do doesn't guarantee you'll fix anything. It doesn't even guarantee people will use you for it. Sometimes you're a hair remover. Sometimes you're a lightsaber. Sometimes you're the reason the dog won't come inside. The Bissell learned this all at once, in a kitchen in Niagara Falls, and there wasn't a manual for that part.

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