Once, in the civilized era of my youth, a doorbell was a modest creature. It chimed politely, announcing visitors with the subdued dignity appropriate to unexpected human contact. Today, however, I find myself assaulted by a menagerie of electronic noises masquerading as greetings. Melodies! Chirps! The simulated bark of a dog who, I assure you, would be too embarrassed to bark that way in real life. Doorbells have abandoned their station as heralds of decorum and have instead become vainglorious performers auditioning for a role no sensible household ever cast.
The worst offenders are the modern “smart” doorbells. Smart! If they were truly smart, they would refrain from recording my porch at unflattering angles, where I appear to be either sleepwalking or wrestling with a grocery bag that refuses to yield its contents. No device should have the right to both judge and memorialize my posture. I opened my front door last week only to discover that my own doorbell had notified me of my presence. I have never felt more unwelcome in a home I legally own.
Then there are those infernal volume levels. A proper doorbell once made a sound that suggested, “A visitor awaits your leisure.” These new monstrosities blast a fanfare fit for the coronation of an emperor. They ricochet through every room, upsetting furniture, animals, and my circulatory system. I am convinced that at least one of my neighbors owns a doorbell whose tone is lifted directly from an ice cream truck, a choice so reckless it ought to be grounds for exile.
And do not think nostalgia blinds me to the truth—I fully recognize that the old doorbells malfunctioned constantly, shorted out during storms, and harbored spiders. But at least they did all this with humility. They didn’t insist on Wi‑Fi passwords or demand firmware updates at ungodly hours. They failed quietly, as any dignified machinery should.
If manufacturers insist on producing these obnoxious contraptions, the least they could do is create a setting called Dignified Mode, in which the doorbell emits a single, unimpressed “ahem.” That, at least, would be honest. Until then, I will continue approaching my own front entrance with suspicion, bracing myself for whatever theatrical nonsense the doorbell believes is appropriate for my arrival.
