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While doing my shopping this past holiday season over on Amazon, I was surprised to see the once-championed assortment of 'robot pets' marked down to almost nothing. Now it's true that fads are fads, and what was hot two years ago won't easily maintain and enjoy the same success today. Still, these prices were low. We're talking rockbottom, get-this-shit-outta-the-warehouse low. Further inspection revealed terrible customer reviews of these mechanized monsters - it seemed that everyone who bought a robot pet was disappointed. Since it's impossible to trust customer reviews from the same place where a Harry Potter broomstick toy is constantly referred to as a sex toy, I decided to shell out an extra fifteen bucks for the then-leader of the pack: Fisher-Price's Rocket, The Wonder Dog.
For the past month, it's sat in the corner of one of our closets, untouched. This is for a few reasons, not the least of which being the incredible amount of batteries necessary to bring Rocket to life. The packaging itself was formidable - if given fifteen minutes, you'd have an easier time cracking into a bank vault than getting Rocket freed from the six thousand garbage bag ties and sharp, plastic locks. It seemed like too much work to go through for an item so unanimously crapped upon, but considering Rocket's original retail price of over a hundred bucks, curiosity finally killed my internal cat and I just had to see what this thing was all about. Today, we review Rocket, The Wonder Dog. I don't doubt that he'll be well worth the fifteen bucks I spent, but what I really want to find out is if he's worth anything remotely close to what people were paying for him two years ago.
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Admittedly, Rocket looks like something that would charm the pajamas off kids opening their presents on Christmas morning. He appeared to be a winner. This is especially important since it takes roughly two hours to open the box he comes inside - even if Rocket ultimately sucks, kids will be in heaven for those preliminary box-opening hours. He also seemed far heavier than the other robot pets I've fondled, leading me to believe that he must've been of a higher quality than his contemporaries. And if nothing else, I could just use Rocket as lightweight dumbbells that will hopefully someday reveal whether or not I actually have veins in my arms. While things were looking up for my new best friend, I was about to find out the awful truth: the costs of owning a real dog are far less than owning a robotic 'wonder' dog.
Yes, you really need that many batteries to make Rocket work. Three AAAs, one 9-V, and three D batteries. I'm pretty sure you could illuminate half of Chicago with this much battery power. While Rocket was a scant fifteen bucks, it actually costs more than that to turn him on. It's not like everyone on the planet has rechargeable AAA and D batteries laying around, and even if they sell those, nobody is about to put that kind of investment into a toy which kids were gonna get tired of in two weeks tops.
On the plus side, this was the first reason I've had to buy a 9-volt battery in years. I'd almost forgotten how fun it is to stick the top of those things onto your tongue. I felt electric. I felt one with Rocket, the Wonder Dog. I also felt slightly depressed spending my Monday night in this fashion, but that's neither here nor there. Just be prepared to shell out a few thousand dollars on batteries if you're unable to pull some kind of Ben Franklin lightning trick to make Rocket do his robot bark.
Rocket remained only halfway out of his package for an hour or so; I felt the need to take regular breaks from untying thousands of plastic wires for the sake of my sanity. Kidney transplants are handled with less fuss. It's almost as if Fisher-Price was intentionally trying to keep you from freeing Rocket. Why would they do that, you ask? Well, see, Rocket is kinda fun, but he's more like 10, maybe 20 bucks worth of fun. Certainly not the 100 dollars zillions of poor Catholics dished out in the Christmas season of '99. I'm sure the company line had something to do with keeping Rocket safe and secure, but I think the truth lies somewhere closer to Fisher-Price hoping they'd be out of business and thus absolved of customer complaints by the time people managed to get Rocket out of the damn box.
Five weeks later, Rocket was free. Definitely prettier and more dog-like than the other robot pets out there, which isn't saying much since most of the competing robot dogs looked more like bear traps attached to plastic silver rectangles. I still held out hope since Rocket appeared to have several animatronic body parts - all his legs, the head, the eyes, the mouth...you name it, it moves. I didn't want to turn my new pet on without fully understanding his needs and capabilities, so I consulted the manual. That didn't work. I was looking more for a six-step one-page guide rather than a fifty-page novel covering everything from 'voice recognition tips' to 'ketchup stain removal' to 'how to turn this into a robot cat' and beyond. I can't bring myself to read the manuals on my important electronic purchases, so there's no way I'm gonna make an exception for Rocket, the Wonderful Wonder Dog.
Oh well, how hard could it be? I'm sure I can manage just fine without soaking in Rocket's extended biography.
One of the main gimmicks is the headset shown above - kids could control Rocket by speaking commands into the small microphone, using a voice recognition system. This got the most customer complaints out of all of Rocket's many shortcomings. The system was flawed, in that Rocket only responded to the very specific voice pitch he was initially programmed with. In other words, your kid had to be clinically monotone if he wanted hands-free control over his slave dog. Tacking on the fact that I didn't want to get an emotional complex over having a head too large to fit the headset onto, I opted to use Rocket's manual remote exclusively.
The remote control presented a more direct and clear approach of robot-puppeteering: illustrations! I wasn't sure what actions any of those vague pictures indicated, but that made it all the more fun. Every button was a potluck surprise, and I never quite knew what Rocket had in store for me when I pushed one. It's so much cooler to play God when you're totally unprepared.
I want you to pay special attention to the button in the center - that's the remote control's equivalent of the big red button nobody's ever supposed to push. I saved that one for last, and wait till you see the results. First, let's turn Rocket on and see if his initial greeting is one of newspaper fetching or pissing oil all over my carpet.
When you flick Rocket's switch on, he goes into a spastic sort-of dance with his eyes rolled back, the likes of which I've only seen once before on a National Geo special about voodoo rituals intended to raise chickens from death. It was quite strange, really, and I'm not saying that out of the sheer pleasure of taking a contrary stance to everything I review. It was really strange. I was waiting for Rocket to tell me that his real name was Charles Lee Ray, but all he did was stumble all over himself while letting out electronic barks at timed intervals.
I should also mention that Rocket's internal gears make more noise than a fleet of cement trucks simultaneously exploding next to the famed World's Largest Boom Mic exhibit at the Liberace Museum in Vegas. Even if you think I'm exaggerating, few would argue that playing with Rocket invariably supplies the kind of background music typically found near electric can openers.
This isn't to say that the toy didn't show signs of promise. Indeed, Rocket does what it was advertised to do - it has all sorts of puppy mannerisms, assuming that your puppy is able to spin its legs in complete 180 degree angles multiple times without any signs of pain or fatigue. In this manner, Rocket has an advantage over real dogs. He was constructed well enough, maintaining good balance even when flipping himself over or doing subsidized tumblesaults for no readily apparent reason. Truly, I felt like I had only cosmetic control of my new pet - the remote seemed to work sometimes, but for the most part, Rocket chose his own path. And don't say I'm wrong, because there's no way I intended to make him shake his head in a 'no' movement for five minutes straight while pattering his paw against the ground. I wasn't sure I understood Rocket, but I was willing to get to know him better before throwing him back into the closet until I move again.
His breath smells more like plastic than rotting flesh and gum disease. It's another advantage Rocket has over real dogs, though I'm a little upset that I can't make him do the infamous peanut butter tongue trick. I miss my real dogs. :/
Although the robot pet fad is dying, it's not quite dead yet. We can date this obsession way back, from old favorites like Teddy Ruxpin to more recent contenders like Tamagotchis and Furbies. When the onslaught of android dogs died out, toy companies moved on to other animals, namely cats and birds. I'm not sure the fad will really go away until we get life-sized, bilingual robot zebras. Some time ago I read a legitimate study that seemed to make sense - in the case of little girls, toys like this play up on their natural maternal instincts. I don't think boys were given the same level of grace excuses to justify their decision to play with fake puppies, but at least half the cliental was covered. In my case, buying the toy was strictly for research. I get by on a technicality. It's still not helping me feel like I don't deserve to drink alcohol or gamble, but it's still a tax write-off.
Here Rocket showcases his amazing ability to stand. He also has the amazing ability to walk, and the amazing ability to sit. The rest of his amazing abilities are a little stranger, and I'm finding it difficult to describe what happens when you hit the rest of his magic buttons. It all started innocently enough...
I wasn't quite sure what Rocket was doing, but it appeared to be swimming. Now I know this thing isn't meant to go in a pool or bathtub, so I can only surmise that Rocket has an inbuilt vested interest in the ancient art of pantomiming. He kind of just waddled in this position for some time, neither seeming content with his position or frustrated enough to attempt sitting up. I tried to remedy the situation by hitting buttons on the remote, but Rocket's got some seriously jacked up AI, and he started showing some scary signs of individuality. My concern was growing, because the only thing more embarrassing than being a guy in his mid-20s who buys robot dogs is allowing the robot dog to take control of the house. Rocket continued on with his own intents, despite my best efforts and the years of speedy button-pressing practice I got playing Tetris.
Then I remembered...I hadn't pushed all the buttons. I left one without my dirty fingerprints, and it wasn't an oversight. You remember that middle button, right? The one with the absolutely indecipherable hieroglyphic imprinted upon it? Well, I really didn't think it was going to come to this, but Rocket was starting to freak me out with his penchant for self-sufficiency. I don't know what this dog's capable of, and I certainly don't know if he's good or evil. At his increasing rate of self-taught movements and emotions, I could've been mere moments away from a rabid and traitorous attack. My last recourse? The forbidden button. The most mysterious and unholy of weapons, I felt I had little choice but to take the plunge and take the risk. I pushed the button.
Did it work? Well, yes it did, if we're talking about my desire to put Rocket back under my control. Yes, in that respect, it worked very well. In fact, Rocket's response time to the mystical middle button was the stuff of legend. I just had no idea that the button was the means of turning Rocket into a cybernetic, psychopathic mess.
Oh, Rocket, what have I done? I've taken away your freedom, at the expense of your sanity. I don't know what your semi-handstand is supposed to mean, but I can't help but feel a bit guilty. My greed, my insatiable need to be the master of all robot pets - this is what did you in. I can scapegoat that middle button all I want, but the truth doesn't escape me, it merely exposes me for what I am - a terrible human being worthy only of being eaten alive by specially bred lab grubs mutated to have sharper chewing instruments. I'm sorry I took your mind, Rocket. I'd give it back if I could.
I'd do anything to make you normal again, Rocket. My poor dog. Oh no, there I go again. 'My' dog. Why couldn't I realize that man was not meant to own his fellow creatures of the plains? I throw darts in the general direction of all natural order theories - if this is what natural order is all about, then just toss me to the lions and be done with it. I shouldn't have hit that button. I should've let you be your own dog. But I couldn't do it, I just couldn't do it. Suddenly I feel faint, my arms growing numb as I begin to realize that even my very body parts are turning against me in protest of my sinuous actions.
I can offer no words of comfort that aren't rooted in simply making me feel less guilty, so I see no point in casually sliding you a 'sorry, bud.' My remorse only serves to mock you further. I am lost, and I have lost you. Your increasingly spastic maneuvering tells me you agree. I wish I could help, but I've done all I can. Once the middle button is pushed, the gates are open, and the Cenobites are free to tinker with and torment the electronic innards of all Fisher-Price robot toys. I know I said I had no reason to, but I feel I cannot have closure unless I say that I'm sorry. So, I'm sorry. If it makes you feel any better, some of the D batteries I used were previously serving prison time in my stereo. I know you're in pain, but soon your power will drain and the misery will cease.
There, my poor little puppy, close your eyes. My sins are washed away as you fall into eternal slumber. I know I don't deserve to put new batteries inside you, and additionally, I cannot afford to put new batteries inside you. I am without options, and am learning that not all destinies are shaped by pure desire. I know you must die, a sacrifice to appease Lucifer and make him overlook the error of my ways. I admire your selfless salvation of those in more fortunate positions than yourself. Sleep now, my poor little puppy. Let Mr. Sandman (the iconic dream guy, not the one from Punch-Out) take you to a happier, more religious world where you're free to roam about without fear of the middle button and of man's sadistic and barbarian ways. You are a hero, Rocket the Wonder Dog. You lived as one, you died as one. You won't be forgotten. We won't think of you every day, but your memory will creep up on us from time to time - this I promise you. You are gone, but the mark you left will last forever. This is another advantage you had over real dogs. How long can urine stay on trees, anyway?
I feel too weary to end this on a positive note, and truly, there is nothing positive about this situation. I have failed Rocket, and I have failed myself. I refuse to fail you too, so here's my final say on Rocket's quality level.
Decent toy, but certainly not worth a hundred bucks. Fisher-Price went the fancy route with this thing, apparently taking it a bit too far since few kids could figure out how to operate Rocket. You know there's a problem when the instructions actually go ahead and say that the dog will 'occasionally not listen to your commands, seemingly for no reason.' They try to write the casual electro-mishaps off as Rocket being more 'dog-like,' but the truth is that the technology still hasn't been mastered. And even if it has, it's not available cheap enough to market as a kid's toy. A hundred dollars is way too much to spend on a sheer 'fad item,' and that's all these were. Though Fisher-Price gave Rocket the ol' college try, he's got nothing substantial enough to separate him from the cavalcade of other shitty robot friendly friend toys. 4 outta 10.
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