Remy has many wonderful qualities. Calmly welcoming the vacuum is not, at this exact moment, one of them.
If you have met Remy, you know I am completely in love with him. You may also know, as my friend Claudia has lovingly pointed out, that I am not always the strictest disciplinarian. I see his little face, his personality, his very clear opinions about how the world should operate, and I tend to think, well, he is perfect.
And then the Stanley Steemer team arrives.
Or the vacuum comes out.
Suddenly Remy is no longer my charming companion. He is a tiny project manager with strong objections and a serious case of vacuum phobia. He barks, rushes toward the noise, and seems deeply convinced that this machine has entered our home with bad intentions. I used to watch him and think, “What am I supposed to do with this?”
Then I spoke with Alexa Holloway, a dog behaviorist, and she said something that stayed with me: you do not have to wait for a problem to become a problem before you ask for help. Behavioral work can start with a puppy, but it can also help an older dog. Every dog can improve. Every owner can improve too.
That last part is the one I needed to hear.
Alexa said she can train a dog quickly, but she does not live in our homes. The real work is teaching us how to communicate, how to stay consistent, and how to maintain the relationship after the trainer leaves. I loved that, even though I did feel personally seen.
Because so much of dog behavior happens in the home. The vacuum. The shades. The doorbell. The hallway sounds. The delivery person who apparently poses a grave emotional threat. These are the little moments woven into daily life, and our dogs are responding to them all day long.
What Alexa explained about the vacuum was so simple, but it made immediate sense. Do not try to teach your dog to be calm around it when you actually need to vacuum. That is the worst moment. You are already thinking about the floors, the noise, the timing, the person waiting to clean, and your dog can feel that before the machine is even on.
Instead, bring the vacuum out when nothing needs to happen. Let it sit there. Let your dog notice it without the pressure of the whole production. Reward the calm moments. Later, turn it on briefly. Reward again. Build slowly.
Of course, this requires consistency, which Remy would probably argue is an area where I have room to grow.
But the lesson felt bigger than the vacuum. It reminded me that our dogs are always reading the room. They are watching our energy, our tension, our expectations, the way we move before something happens. If I am already bracing for Remy to react, he probably feels that too. Then we are both reacting to the vacuum before the vacuum has done anything at all.
There is something humbling about that.
I spend so much time thinking about what makes a home feel good for people. The right room, the right timing, the little details that make daily life feel easier. Remy has made me think about the smaller signals too: the sound that starts before the machine appears, the way I tense up because I know he will, the routines he trusts, and the ones he still questions.
So the work starts with becoming better observers. We notice what unsettles them, practice before the stressful moment arrives, and help them feel safe in the spaces we share.
I still love Remy exactly as he is. Even when he is suspicious of household equipment. Especially then, if I am being honest.
But I am learning that loving him well also means helping him understand the world a little better, one vacuum appearance at a time.
If your dog has vacuum phobia or one very specific household villain, tell me what it is. Remy will feel deeply validated.
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