Bet you never thought you’d be scrolling through the online Denver Gazette and land on an ode to a vacuum cleaner. But that’s exactly what this is.

I promise it won’t suck.

From an early age, I have always tried to support my friends in whatever employment adventures they take on. It’s one of those basic friendship tests. Like: Are you the kind of person who shows up when it’s your friend’s moving day? I try to be the kind of friend who always shows up. When I bought a house, for example, I let a high-school pal put in a sprinkler system that, to the ongoing consternation of my neighbor, Handyman Ron, somehow extended 3 feet into his yard.

Nearly 40 years ago, one of my best high-school friends had taken his first lousy job out of college selling big, bulky Kirby vacuum cleaners. If you’ve never seen one, trust me: Kirbys are the Sherman tanks of dirt inhalation.

Greg Jensen had been a godsend to me when I was starting my junior year at Regis High School. My parents were divorcing, and we had to move out of our house in Arvada into a random cramped condo with my dad in Lakewood. But it was close to where Tony May, the school’s uncommonly kind star soccer player, lived. Tony was a grade ahead of me – an upcoming senior – and he took me in. His mother had recently died, and we bonded over long-distance neighborhood runs and the unusual commonality that neither of us had moms in the house.

Tony brought me into his cool-kid social circle, which opened a new world of stupidly fun senior guys – many, coincidentally, paired with girlfriends from Arvada West High School. It was unheard of for a junior to be fully welcomed by seniors at this stage of the high-school game, but they let me in. And Tony’s buddy Greg Jensen soon became one of the seminal friends of my formative years. When they all graduated together and Tony took a soccer scholarship in Kansas, I paid it forward by taking his two younger brothers under my wing for my senior year.

Somehow, despite our age differences, the distance of colleges and varying ideas on how many years college should actually take to complete, we all managed to stay thick as thieves, at least into our young adult lives.

So when Greg graduated and asked me if he could come over to my tiny apartment and practice his just-learned sales demonstration for Kirby vacuum cleaners, my only condition was that he bring the beer.

Greg took me through his whole presentation: The high-tech carpet shampoo system, the hand-held “Ghostbusters” vacuum attachment, the floor buffer, and, of course, the revolutionary Zippbrush.

Greg wasn’t actually pitching me. He was practicing. I didn’t need a big, bulky Kirby vacuum cleaner. And I certainly couldn’t afford one that would cost about one-eighth of my $8,000 beginner journo salary at the Littleton Independent.

But Greg’s job depended on him selling them. So I bought a Heritage II Deluxe on a stupid high-interest payment plan because Greg was my friend. All accessories were included, though I still have never once actually shampooed a carpet in my life.

I could not have known then that my Kirby would be with me throughout the rest of my life. It moved with me on my journalism path to New York and to Dallas and to North Carolina and back again to Denver, dutifully cleaning up all my messes along the way: The shattered glass coffee table at my epic New York Christmas party for the staff of The National Sports Daily. The mushroom-shaped apartment I kept in Raleigh. The time we tried to see if it would pick up dried blood. (It did, sort of.) The really dumb time I tried to see if it worked on gutters (the kind on your roof, not the sidewalk). All those dust bunnies and spiderwebs. The 40 or 50 pounds of fur that have come off my 7-pound cat.

Here’s the thing: It never needed a repair. Not once. I did no maintenance on it, other than buy new bags. It’s been like Stephen King’s self-healing car, Christine. Unbreakable. Like the best kinds of friendships.

That is, until last month. While vacuuming questionable grossities under my La-Z-Boy that I could not even attempt to identify, I heard a cackle over the noise of an engine that was louder than an airplane. There was actual fire coming from the cord where it plugs into the machine base. When I put it out, the plug had melted into the socket.

The 12-year-old in me thought: That. Was. Awesome.

I instantly knew it was dead, of course. Kaput. But what a spectacular way to go out. Almost like a chosen death.

Still, like anyone who receives a terminal diagnosis, I required a second opinion. I found an old-school vacuum repair shop in Arvada not far from where I grew up. When I turned into the parking lot, I was a little unsure whether I had found Arvada Vacuum or a pet store because next to the name was the smiling face of a huge green dog named Ollie, who, for some reason, is the company mascot.

I’ll not soon forget the look on the face of the nice guy behind the counter – apparently, they are pretty much all named Barhite, descendants of the couple who opened the shop back in 1972 – when I brought in my battered relic, set it down and unleashed a puff of lung-choking dust.

“Can it be saved?” I begged.

It did not take long to determine that my beaten old Kirby had sucked its last paper clip, expired earwig and dropped Dorito.

But what a run. They sure don’t build them like they used to.

Only … they do!

Look here, I was told: Here’s a newly rebuilt Kirby they had just put out on the floor that same day. Same build. Same bulk. Same feel. But good as new. With the trade-in (which let’s be honest was more like a disposal fee), I’d be paying a fifth of what I shelled out back in the 1980s just so my pal Greg would get his first commission.

This new Kirby didn’t suck. And yet … it sucked HARD, if you know what I mean. Deal made.

But first, I requested a moment of silence with my trusty Heritage II. I gave it a little hug, which left my T-Shirt covered in dust. I thanked it for being one of the most loyal and faithful constants in my life. We snapped some selfies. (OK, I snapped some selfies).

And then I took my next-generation Heritage II home and vacuumed like it was the end of vacuuming times. (Sorry, dead spiders.)

And now I find myself missing Greg Jensen and all the laughs and stupid fun he brought into my life. Ironically, my Kirby far outlasted the friendship with the amazingly awesome friend who sold it to me. Haven’t a clue what’s become of Greg. Not even Facebook can tell me.

And that actually does suck.

More to the story …

Last week, I took to Facebook to introduce this topic of long-lasting relationships with household appliances after the only can opener I have ever owned – aptly branded “World’s Best” – spun off its gear wheel, and I was forced to give it a sad but proper landfill funeral of its own.

You responded. Boy, did you respond. People clearly develop great affinities with long-lasting everyday objects throughout a lifetime. Reader Jan Knauer wrote to tell of a friend who loved her Kirby vacuum cleaner so much, she named her dog after it.

• Dwayne Carrington can remember his mother buying a Kirby in the early 1960s when he was just 5 or 6 years old. “I remember the salesman talking my mom into bringing the vac, with all of its accessories, into our house. Mom was a very hard sell, but she liked everything. The cost was the deal-breaker. After a little haggling back and forth, he asked, ‘Ma’am, what can l do to convince you to buy this product?’ She gave him her price and asked for all of the accessories. He agreed and she wrote him a check. That vacuum lasted through five kids and thousands of cleaning experiences. It was clunky, heavy and loud, but reliable. And l’m sure it probably still works!”

• Leslie O’Carroll: “When my husband and I first got married, we had to decide between an XBox or a vacuum. We chose the vacuum.” And their Dyson is still working, 20 years later.

• Mishelle McClure Baun: “When my brother-in-law, Mike, was a teenager in the late 1970s, he borrowed a Kirby so he could clean out his summer apartment. The hatch of his Opel wagon was tied down, but it didn’t withstand the Kirby hitting it when the brakes were slammed. Next thing Mike knew, the Kirby was passing him on a busy traffic circle. He did successfully dodge through traffic and chase it down. It suffered a few battle scars, as does Mike’s reputation to this day. We all know a Timex takes a lickin’ and it keeps on tickin’ – but this Kirby survived a roller derby.”

• And this, from Robin Payne: “Some 48 years ago while in college, a Kirby salesman came by. I loved the Kirby, but no way could I afford it. I did receive a steak knife set for listening to the in-home presentation – and I still have that set to this day.”

Farewell, Kirby Heritage II. Best purchase I ever made.