Growing up, I never had a pet. My sister begged for years to get a puppy, but for one reason or another, it was never really in the cards. Even as an adult, the nature of my work or living space has always prevented me from having the ability to get one. Some day, I aspire to have a dog. Probably as a practice mammal to see if I can handle a kid. But still, a dog. A thick, lazy, practice dog.

To some degree, I think this is what the Japanese creators of Tamagotchis had in mind, both as a substitute and a practice pet for children. Surely, one’s ability to care for a pixellated image on an egg-shaped screen is heavily correlated with the responsibility needed to provide basic essentials and companionship for a living, breathing organism…right?

God I hope not.

Somewhere in that gray area amongst the end of elementary classes and the beginning of junior high, that abstractly defined middle school existence teetering between childhood carefreeness and teenage hormonal angst, Tamagotchis and the like skyrocketed to popularity in the United States. My younger siblings and I weren’t allowed to have them until the end of the school year, but once summer break hit, we were each bestowed with a digital graduation gift. And with an electronic beeping egg hanging from the belt loop of my below-knee jean shorts, I was trendy as hell. Step off.

I chose Tamagotchis over Giga Pets and Digimon, which at the time was probably a lesser equivalent of choosing Backstreet Boys over *NSYNC and 98 Degrees; in other words, it was a totally arbitrary selection between the same exact product that nonetheless caused plenty of heated tween debate. I cared for that toy as best I could throughout the summer, but as September approached, I grew concerned about my future ability as an attentive parent with the responsibilities of school looming. I thought I would probably keep my pet in my locker, then check on it in between periods. It liked the dark anyway, and there were ventilation slits so it could breathe. Unfortunately, due in part to my dropping it far too many times and also the general quality of a plastic digital game in the nineties, the batteries (and probably most of the other electronic hardware) died shortly before summer’s end. Maybe it was for the best.

It’s been somewhere in the ballpark of a decade and a half since my toy bit the dust, and my memories are somewhat vague. I don’t really recall the day-to-day responsibilities of caring for a digital pet. But the internet is a glorious thing, and as it turns out, there is, in fact, a Tamagotchi application for smartphones. I had some time before I planned on turning in this article, so I thought it would be appropriate to give myself a feel for what it was like to own one again. GAME ON.

Day 1

Got my first egg and watched it hatch. The miracle of life! In the moments before it emerged, I had so many questions. Boy or girl? Would it have my eyes? What would it grow up to be? It had its whole life ahead, years of unwritten experiences and untapped potential. I was about to be a proud new daddy.

It’s a…blob.

I guess I saw that coming. Immediately, it needs my attention. Feed me. Clean me. Play a game with me. Ok, what kind of game? Well, I’m going to bounce up and down, and then you’re going to guess which way I turn. Really, that’s the game? Left or right? That’s it?

On the plus side, I’ve already got a leg up on my adolescent self. The internal clock of my blob is synced to the time on my phone. Last time around, I accidentally switched AM and PM when setting it and had a nocturnal pet for the first couple of days. That did not work out very well.

Day 2

I woke up and my blob was sick. And it had two Hershey Kiss-shaped poops next to it. And it might have been a few hours between my awakening and remembrance that it existed. Fortunately, nothing a couple shots of nondescript medicine and a lateral flushing of the screen won’t fix. Phew, dodged a bullet there. On to more pressing matters.

The beeping. The horrible, horrible beeping.

I don’t know how I spent several weeks listening to that awful noise. Definitely turning the sound effects off. Hush little baby, don’t say a word…

Day 3

Paternity leave over. Back at work. Sneaking looks at my Tamagotchi in between patients. I imagine this is what it will be like to call and check in on the baby from work someday. Still pooping and needing attention? Ok. Good. But sometime in the afternoon, I came back to discover that my blob had matured, now assuming the form of a duck-blob. They really just grow up right before your eyes, don’t they?

Day 4

These things can EAT. I swear, duck-blob never ceases to be hungry. I’ve given it, like, eight loaves of bread and another half dozen fully-wrapped hard candies today. WHAT ARE WE TEACHING OUR CHILDREN???

Day 5

Morning went well, duck-blob seems pretty happy. Played with it multiple times; I’m really getting good at guessing which direction it’s going to turn. Came back to it later in the day to discover it had become a sparkling, angelic figure.

That’s weird.

Wait.

Oh no.

I KILLED MY TAMAGOTCHI IN FIVE DAYS.

Crap.

This was a stupid game, anyway. I’ll do better with the dog.

About Andrew Rose

Andrew Rose is a writer and editor for Rookerville. He also manages a travel blog for his friends and family. His book, “Seizure Salad”, is a work of fiction - not in that it is a tale of fantasy, but in that it does not actually exist.

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