What the Little Green Machine Learned

The Little Green Machine arrived in a box that promised everything. Portable. Powerful. Ready to handle whatever life threw at it. It had no idea what was coming.

BW unboxed it on a Tuesday. The dog had done what the dog does—tracked mud from the garage through the living room like he was marking territory in a museum. Forty dollars at the rental place, BW said. For that price, we own one now. So we bought the Little Green Machine.

It sat in the garage for three weeks, which is when most things in this house go to think about their choices.

Then the child spilled an entire cup of grape juice on the hallway carpet. Not a sip. Not a splash. A full cup, held upside down, moving in a slow arc like she was blessing the fibers. I found her standing over it, observing the spreading stain with the focused concentration of a scientist.

That's when the Little Green Machine got its first real assignment.

I filled the tank. I plugged it in. I showed the child how to hold the trigger, and this was my mistake because the child understood immediately that the machine had a trigger, which meant the machine could be used, which meant there were other things that could be cleaned, which meant—

She was cleaning the dog.

Not the carpet near the dog. The dog itself. The Little Green Machine, which had cost ninety-eight dollars and change, was now being deployed on a seventy-pound golden retriever who had never consented to anything in his life. He stood there, dripping, confused, while she worked the nozzle like she was diffusing a bomb.

BW came downstairs. Took the machine from the child. Took the child upstairs. Said nothing to me, which is worse than the thing she could have said.

The Little Green Machine dried out that night in the corner of the garage, next to the exercise bike and the bread maker and the other things we bought to fix our lives. It had cleaned carpet for forty minutes. It had deep-cleaned a dog for six. It had lived its whole intended purpose and also its entire unintended purpose in a single afternoon.

Now it sits there, waiting. The carpet looks decent. The dog looks betrayed. The machine just looks tired, which is probably the most honest thing in the house right now. (I haven't touched the trigger since. Some lessons you only need once.)

If you liked this story about the Bissell Little Green Machine Portable Carpet Cleaner, you can buy your own on Amazon. Remember, we're BFF if you do.