I panicked when my daughter announced she wanted a pet for her 5th birthday. I couldn't assume responsibility of another living creature when I could barely control my children. I had a vision of my mug printed on the SPCA's most-wanted list for inflicting a poor, helpless creature with my family.
I needed a pet that would teach my daughter responsibility without putting the animal kingdom in danger or turning my living room into a chew-toy. Preferably a low maintenance, sturdy pet that didn't require consistent food, and liked to iron.
I finally decided the perfect pet was an electronic tadpole, a virtual pet that can live on a key chain and be programmed to grow without messing on the carpet or chewing the furniture.
The day I brought it home, all I had to do was enter its name --Hoppy--then set the date and time so he would eventually grow into a frog. He swam around on a tiny screen in simulated water and didn't bite, bark or shed. He occasionally beeped when he was hungry, bored or tired, but I showed my daughter which buttons to press to care for him.
"The directions say to press the yellow button to feed him," I said. "When he's tired, press the red button to put him to sleep and the blue one to turn on his night light."
"Can I hold him?" she wanted to know.
As I put him into her hand, I thought about what a priceless learning experience this would be.
"You need to keep him healthy and happy to get a high score," I said. "Then he will eventually turn into a frog."
My daughter carried Hoppy around in her pocket and diligently pressed the appropriate buttons for a whole hour.
"Look, Mommy," she said. "His score is 20 points; he'll be a frog soon."
During dinner he pooped seven times, beeped every five minutes, and refused to eat his virtual food. He evolved from a tadpole into a toddler.
"Do something, Mom!" My daughter wiped tears from her eyes. "His score is only seven. He's going to die!"
I was afraid Hoppy's death might traumatize her, so I frantically pressed all the buttons, but I could only get his score to 10. I stayed up all night and checked on him every hour. The next day, I kept him in my pocket and had to pull over on the side of the freeway to play with him when he croaked for attention.
He demanded so many feedings during the day I didn't have time to make dinner for my family. By bedtime, I grew delirious and began to think he was Charles Manson in disguise.
The next morning I had bags under my eyes and was beginning to shake. I brought my daughter to school without bothering to comb my hair or brush my teeth. As I shuffled toward my daughter's kindergarten classroom, a frazzled-looking parent approached me in the schoolyard and took my arm.
"What's your score?" she asked.
"17," I said.
"Mine's 1812," she said, pulling out her child's virtual pet from her pocket, "but I haven't slept in four days." She paused to press some buttons. "I hear the PTA president got her virtual monkey to 20 before they admitted her to the hospital. She kept repeating something about Charles Manson."
I waited until I got home to take Hoppy out of my pocket. To my horror, his points were at zero, and he had sprouted wings. Hoppy was dead. I felt like a terrible mother. I spent the rest of the day trying to restart him, but I couldn't find the directions.
I considered tossing him into the garbage before I had to pick up my daughter from school, but I decided it would be a good lesson about the life cycle. I just hoped I could afford the therapy bill.
"Where's Hoppy?" she asked as soon as she saw me.
I slowly pulled him out of my pocket.
"He has wings," she said.
"Yes," I nodded. "Just like a bird."
"I didn't know frogs turned into birds," she said. "Cool."
I decided Hoppy would keep his wings and I'd forget about the life cycle lesson. And I silently vowed if my son ever wanted a pet I'd get something easier to maintain--like a pack of Alaskan sled dogs or a pair of man-eating lions.
Willow Glen, California Since 1992
