Today our landlord Sasha installed a new toilet in our apartment. A few weeks ago, Mr. P had mentioned to him that our former toilet required near-daily plunging to deal with clogs resulting from wholly normal toilet usage. “And so he said we’re getting a new toilet,” Mr. P told me.

“Huh,” I said. In our two years of living here, we’ve never complained about anything; I hadn’t realized that Sasha was so attentive. “Next time you talk to him, could you mention that the refrigerator makes excessive humming sounds? And the stair runners are starting to fray at the edges? And I have to pull down the shades two or three times before they stay down?”

The truth is, Sasha is the most fabulous landlord I’ve ever had. His vigilant maintenance has made our apartment extremely livable. Our rent is dirt cheap and, after the initial year-long lease ended, we enjoy a friendly month-to-month agreement. He supported our efforts to start a vegetable garden in the backyard by allowing us to turn a huge swath of grass into a patch of dirt. Most of my previous landlords have been greedy, neglectful misers who think of their apartment solely as a cash-generating investment. Sasha, however, bears consideration to the fact that his rental property is also someone’s home.

Sasha is an immigrant from Croatia in his 70s who works as a carpenter (non-retired) and speaks rough English. When we initially rented the apartment, we dealt with Sasha’s son, who placed an ad on Craigslist and probably feared that his father would succumb to internet scum. The apartment was vacant when we looked at it; Sasha undertook extensive upgrades after the previous tenants moved out, replacing the floors and installing new windows. His son was eager to get new people to move in. “The longer the place stays empty, the more work my dad’s going to do on it,” he told us. “It just has to end.”

So I can understand why Sasha suddenly jumped on the idea of a new toilet; our complaint about the constant clogs gave him a reason to complete another property upgrade. Our old toilet was one of those 5-gallon toilets that I think the government made illegal because it so flagrantly consumed water. When flushed, it would sustain an endless swirl as water poured into the bowl, swelling to an alarming height before abating with a cranky gurgle. This toilet really toiled.

Still, one can grow accustomed to a commode, and I felt sort of sad this morning as I “said goodbye” to the old toilet. We left for the day so Sasha could install the new loo — a process that I wasn’t the least bit curious about — and returned this evening to find a stark-white porcelain potty in our bathroom. After being outside for four hours, I was eager to get acquainted with the new toilet. My initial impression is that though the paucity of water in the bowl made me uncomfortable, it flushes beautifully. We’ll see how it holds up under more vulgar conditions.

The old toilet is sitting outside next to the house (see below), waiting for this week’s trash collection. (This brings to mind another story about a toilet sitting on a lawn, but I’ll save that for another day.)

Goodbye Old Friend