I was trying to get some work done, which would have been considerably easier if Mr Whiskers had not decided that my laptop represented a threat to national security. The orange menace had spent the better part of ten minutes launching himself between the couch, the coffee table, and my lap with the enthusiasm of a cat who had recently discovered caffeine. Every time I managed to type more than a few words, a furry paw would materialize from nowhere and land directly on the keyboard. At one point he opened three browser tabs, deleted half a sentence, and somehow increased the size of the text on my screen. I still have no idea how he accomplished that.
Across the room, Pandora was making breakfast. The smell of bacon drifted through the apartment, making concentration increasingly difficult. Every few seconds I heard the familiar sizzle from the kitchen, which only reinforced my growing suspicion that work was a fundamentally flawed concept. John Mercer wandered into the living room looking like he’d only recently become aware that morning existed. He dropped onto the couch beside me, where he was immediately selected as Mr Whiskers’ next victim. The cat launched himself onto John’s lap and began climbing toward his shoulder. John sighed heavily and asked why this always happened to him. Mr Whiskers, naturally, declined to answer.
I was about to return to my work when a strange sound drifted through the open window. It wasn’t loud. In fact, that was exactly what bothered me. It sounded like a lawnmower, but only in the same way that a toy spaceship sounds like an actual spacecraft. The familiar roar of a gas engine was missing. Instead, there was a low mechanical hum that seemed almost unnaturally polite. Looking out the window, I spotted Mrs Jenkins in her garden. She appeared completely unconcerned, watering her flowers while the mysterious humming continued somewhere nearby.
“Do you hear that?” I asked.
John listened for a moment before shrugging. “The lawnmower?”
“That’s not a lawnmower.”
“It sounds exactly like a lawnmower.”
“It sounds suspiciously like a lawnmower.”
John stared at me for several seconds. “Those are the same thing.”
I wasn’t convinced. The humming continued with a steady precision that felt somehow wrong. Mrs Jenkins crossed the yard carrying her watering can, and to my surprise the sound seemed to follow her. That immediately got my attention. I stood up and moved closer to the window. When I pointed this out, John suggested that perhaps the noise was coming from the same yard Mrs Jenkins happened to be standing in. While technically possible, I felt that explanation lacked imagination.
From the kitchen, Pandora informed me that I was already overthinking things. I replied that I wasn’t overthinking anything and merely believed it was possible Mrs Jenkins was controlling some sort of unusual gardening equipment. Pandora pointed out that this statement alone proved her point. Before I could formulate a proper rebuttal, something moved behind a hedge. I caught only a brief glimpse of it, but it was enough to make me freeze. Whatever it was appeared small, black, and remarkably fast.
“There!” I said.
John finally looked up from his coffee. “There what?”
“I saw it.”
“Saw what?”
“The lawnmower.”
“You mean the thing making lawnmower noises?”
“No.”
At that point John developed the expression he usually reserved for conversations he regretted participating in.
Determined to uncover the truth, I abandoned my laptop and assumed a surveillance position near the window. Several minutes passed. Pandora brought breakfast into the living room. John ate. Mr Whiskers attempted to steal bacon and was unsuccessful only because Pandora had years of experience defending food from him. Then, at long last, the mysterious machine emerged from behind a flower bed.
I gasped.
The device rolled silently across the lawn without a driver, handle, or visible operator. It reached the edge of the grass, executed a perfect turn, and continued in the opposite direction with mechanical precision. Mrs Jenkins wasn’t even paying attention to it.
“John,” I said quietly.
“What?”
“The lawnmower is autonomous.”
He glanced outside and immediately shrugged. “It’s a robotic mower.”
I stared at him. “You mean a robot.”
“It’s a mower.”
“A mowing robot.”
“If that helps.”
I returned my attention to the machine. It continued its route with eerie efficiency, moving back and forth across the lawn while Mrs Jenkins calmly tended her flowers. Somehow, the fact that she appeared completely unconcerned about a self-propelled machine roaming her yard made the situation even more suspicious. Pandora thought it looked neat. I informed her that this was exactly the sort of attitude the lawnmower people were counting on.
There was a long silence after that.
“The lawnmower people?” Pandora finally asked.
I pointed toward the window. “Look at it. It’s pretending to be a lawnmower.”
“Because it is a lawnmower,” John replied.
“That’s what makes it so convincing.”
At that exact moment, the machine reached the sidewalk, performed another flawless turn, and continued its patrol. Mr Whiskers jumped onto the windowsill and watched it intently. His tail twitched once. I immediately concluded that he had noticed something suspicious as well. Unfortunately, he chose that moment to lose interest and begin cleaning himself, which weakened my argument considerably.
Nobody believed me for the rest of the day. Not Pandora. Not John Mercer. Not even Karen when she arrived later that evening for movie night. Yet as I closed the curtains before bed, I glanced outside one final time. The robotic mower was sitting motionless beside Mrs Jenkins’ garden shed, its tiny charging light glowing faintly in the darkness.
For just a second, I could have sworn it was watching me.
And if that lawnmower turns out to be gathering intelligence for some future robot uprising, I expect a full apology from everyone.
Especially John Mercer.