When I got married for the second time, I inherited a dog. A good fellow named Mickey, with a keen nose and ear, keeping us safe from all the things that go bump in the night with a bark that can wake one from even the soundest sleep. He marks his spacious territory that is my yard with considerable regularity and consistency, something that, because of polite society, requires my out-of-doors janitorial efforts with commensurate regularity and consistency. However, his greatest skill is his never-ending search for sustenance - if even a tiny morsel is dropped onto the floor, it is swallowed up in moments. He gives us no time at all to exercise the five-second rule.
If I had to rename him thirty years ago, I'd have gone with Hoover. Today, I think he'd be called Dyson. Times clearly do change.