Pickles was a twelve-pound orange cat who firmly believed he owned the house.
Technically, the mortgage belonged to his human, Sarah.
Pickles considered this an administrative error.
His daily responsibilities included screaming at Sarah because he could see the bottom of his food bowl, knocking pens off the desk during important video calls, and sitting directly in front of the television whenever Sarah tried to watch anything containing dialogue.
He was excellent at his job.
Then Sarah brought home the Roomba.
Pickles watched suspiciously as she placed the strange round object on the floor.
“What do you think?” Sarah asked.
Pickles narrowed his eyes.
He thought treason.
Sarah pressed a button.
The Roomba beeped.
Pickles jumped approximately three feet into the air.
He immediately pretended this had not happened.
The Roomba began moving.
Pickles followed it from a safe distance, crouched low to the ground like a tiny orange lion stalking prey across the Serengeti.
Except the prey was vacuuming cracker crumbs.
The Roomba turned.
Pickles froze.
The Roomba moved toward him.
Pickles ran.
Not casually.
He fled as though the vacuum had personally announced its intention to collect his soul.
He disappeared around the corner, followed by the unmistakable sound of something crashing.
Sarah sighed.
“Pickles?”
Silence.
Then Pickles casually walked back into the room as though he’d been elsewhere conducting business.
Unfortunately, the Roomba was still there.
For the next twenty minutes, Pickles conducted surveillance from the kitchen table.
Then something terrible happened.
The Roomba bumped his favorite cardboard box.
Pickles stood.
The Roomba bumped it again.
Pickles’ ears flattened.
Sarah recognized the expression.
“Oh no.”
Pickles launched himself from the table.
He landed directly on top of the Roomba.
The Roomba kept moving.
Pickles’ face changed.
Apparently, he had not anticipated this.
Now he was riding it.
Sarah grabbed her phone.
“Don’t you dare,” Pickles’ expression seemed to say.
Sarah absolutely dared.
The Roomba carried Pickles triumphantly through the living room.
His initial panic gradually disappeared.
He sat taller.
His tail curled neatly around his paws.
Within thirty seconds, Pickles had gone from terrified hostage to emperor inspecting his kingdom.
Sarah couldn’t stop laughing.
“You like it!”
Pickles stared at her with the cold dignity of a cat who would absolutely deny this allegation in court.
Then the Roomba approached the hallway.
Pickles remained aboard.
It entered the kitchen.
Still aboard.
It vacuumed underneath the table.
Pickles ducked.
Still aboard.
Then it approached his water bowl.
Pickles suddenly realized the vehicle had no brakes.
The Roomba bumped the bowl.
Water went everywhere.
Pickles launched himself off.
He skidded across the kitchen floor, crashed into a grocery bag, became briefly trapped inside it, escaped at full speed and disappeared upstairs.
Sarah was laughing so hard she had to sit down.
Five minutes later, Pickles returned.
He was wet.
He was offended.
And he had clearly contacted an attorney.
He walked directly past Sarah without acknowledging her existence.
Then he approached the Roomba.
It sat quietly on its charging dock.
Pickles stared at it.
The Roomba said nothing.
Pickles slowly raised one paw.
Sarah whispered, “Don’t.”
Pickles looked directly at her.
Then he slapped the Roomba.
BEEP.
Pickles jumped.
Sarah laughed.
Pickles slapped it again.
BEEP.
Another slap.
BEEP.
“Pickles!”
Slap.
BEEP.
Apparently, this continued until Pickles felt justice had been served.
The following morning, Sarah walked downstairs and discovered something unusual.
Pickles was sitting on the Roomba.
Waiting.
Sarah stared at him.
“You want me to turn it on, don’t you?”
Pickles looked away.
Sarah pressed the button.
The Roomba began moving.
Pickles rode majestically into the living room.
And that was how Sarah learned an important lesson: Pickles wasn’t afraid of the Roomba anymore.
He had simply realized he’d been given a chauffeur. 😹
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