There was something so innocent about them: those adorable robotic animals (Poo-Chis, Meow Chis, Furbies, to name a few) that dominated my childhood. As basic and limited as their sounds, expressions and ranges of motion may have been, they were the last word in hi-tech at that time, and my friends and I thought ourselves inexpressibly cool whenever we carried one around.
You can be sure that we named our toys, too, and gave them elaborate personalities: likes, dislikes, recurring gripes, rivalries, friendships, peace treaties and mutually beneficial alliances in the perennial Cats v Dogs War that raged within the imaginations and living rooms of all the neighbourhood children.
It’s occurring to me now how little I’ve changed, in that respect. For example, I’ve given my own car a name and personality too – or rather, I gave her the name (L.T.) and allowed her personality to gradually become clear to me, the more I drove her. She growls ominously when I haven’t gotten the balance between her clutch and gas pedals exactly right (manuals are still the most common type of car in my country of Ireland, I know they are a rarity in the U.S.), she groans at me when I brake just a bit too harshly for her liking and reminds me to go easy on her as she’s no spring chicken – though as a Peugeot, a certain French hauteur compels her to let me know that she is more capable than I might think, for a car of her age. She is proud.
She can certainly be a little temperamental – when her oil tank has been filled, for example, she takes her sweet time to acknowledge this and stop screeching at me – but she is hardier than she seems. I’m convinced that she talks to me, in her own way … but I digress. (Digressions are part of the joy of freewriting, of course – the more of them, the better.)
Assigning names and personalities to my things is one trait that has remained with me from those early childhood experiences of thinking robo-dogs were the best things since sliced bread.
My thoughts turn, too, to Tamagotchis – I can well recall the stress of having to make sure the robo-pets within were fed and watered and rested at regular, yet strangely unpredictable intervals. I could never seem to make them survive for longer than a week: a continual source of distress to my seven- and eight-year-old self.
The robo-pets I played with then were so simple compared to the amusements kids have today, yet I remember them fondly.
A response to the freewrite prompt mechanical dog.