The digital age has gifted us with a dangerous illusion: the belief that connectivity is the same as connection. I live my life by the numbers, a devotee of the church of efficiency. As a systems analyst, my world is a series of data points, dashboards, and automated solutions. I track my sleep, my steps, and my caloric intake with religious fervor. Naturally, when it came to my mother’s safety in her aging suburban ranch house, I applied the same logic. I turned her home into a “smart” fortress, a network of sensors and thermostats that allowed me to monitor her life from the sleek comfort of my dual-monitor home office forty miles away.
The illusion shattered on a Tuesday afternoon during a relentless, bone-chilling blizzard. My phone buzzed—not with an alarm, but with a call. My mother’s voice was a brittle thread, barely audible over the wind howling through the lines. “It’s broken, Michael,” she whispered, her words punctuated by the rhythmic chatter of her teeth. “The air… it feels like ice. I’m freezing to death.”
I didn’t even hesitate; I opened her home dashboard. The data was unequivocal. The furnace was firing at eighty percent capacity. The ambient temperature in her living room was a stable, comfortable seventy-two degrees. Humidity was optimal. All systems were green.
“Mom, I’m looking at the sensor readings right now,” I said, my voice tinged with the impatient arrogance of the “informed” professional. “The house is warm. You’re just feeling a bit under the weather. Maybe have some tea?”
“It doesn’t feel warm,” she replied, a small, hollow sound that should have haunted me instantly. Instead, I sighed—a sharp, percussive exhale of frustration. I had a Zoom call in two hours. I had a life to manage. But the persistence of her “malfunction” forced my hand. “Fine,” I snapped. “I’m coming.”
I couldn’t leave Dante behind. Dante is a Xoloitzcuintli, a Mexican hairless dog that looks like a prehistoric relic with a mohawk. He is a creature of high-strung nerves and naked, slate-gray skin. Because he lacks fur, he is perpetually cold, and because he is a Xolo, he is instinctively sensitive to the energy of the room. I wrapped him in a designer fleece vest and navigated forty minutes of white-knuckle sleet, my blood pressure rising with every mile.
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