“Ugh, Muffey they’re at it again!”  Boxey turned away
from the scene before him in his own living room.  His
own father and Sheba were kissing again, Sheba’s legs
draped over his father’s legs, almost sitting in his
father’s lap.  “This is worse than those daytime
dramas.”  

Boxey patted the fuzzy head of the daggit and noticed
for probably the millionth time that the daggit needed
a good brushing.  The simulated nylon fur was
beginning to pill and bunch up, but Boxey was afraid
that he might do more damage than good.  He wasn’t
sure if Wilker had any more fur left.  You could still
see the difference in color from the repairs after
Muffey was hurt in the fire.  He felt the wires and
cold metal underneath the fur.  Despite all attempts,
Muffey just didn’t generate the kind of heat of a real
daggit. 

Boxey remembered for a moment the real daggit he used
to have, the one lost in the destruction, the one his
father, his real father had given him.  The first
Muffey was warm and soft.  He had a soft belly that
felt good to rub and tongue that didn’t drip distilled
water on him.  His tongue had a texture and a smell to
it.  The real Muffey smelled like green grass and
sunshine.  The real Muffey smelled like dirt and
worms.  The real Muffey reminded him of all the times
he’d play outdoors with his friends.  This Muffey, he
smelled like a Life Station.  

Instinctually Boxey kneeled down and squeezed the
daggit, drinking in the antiseptic smell, the smell
that reminded him of the last hug his mother gave him.
 The sound of the wet kisses and moans behind him made
Boxey hug the daggit all the harder.  When his mother
and Apollo kissed, Boxey could come up and get a kiss
too.  When Apollo hugged his mother, he hugged Boxey
too.  For a moment a memory flitted through his mind,
his mom and his real dad and Boxey all hugging,
dancing around the main room of his old home with the
sunshine streaming through the windows, the real
Muffey chasing them around barking.  Boxey suddenly
felt warm and soft, like he was melting.  

The rumbling motor whine of the mechanical daggit
broke his reverie.  It was a sound meant to simulate a
comforting daggit sound, but instead it reminded Boxey
of just how unreal the daggit was.  Boxey pulled back
and looked into the lifeless plastic hollow eyes.  

“I hate you.”  He felt the words well up from his
stomach.  “I hate you.”  He took care to enunciate
each word.  

The daggit cocked its head, issued a small mewling
sound, and then snuggled his head under Boxey’s arm. 
“It’s programmed to love me no matter what I do.”
Boxey reminded himself and the flash of anger faded. 
“No matter what I do, it will never hate me.  It will
never leave me.”  Boxey buried his face in the
scratchy nylon fur and let the tears he’d been holding
back leak out, but not too many.  They might short out
something on his beloved daggit.  

“Dad gave you to me.  He wanted me to be happy because
he loves me.”  Boxey looked over his shoulder to his
father and Sheba still playing tonsil triad, as
Starbuck would call it.  He saw his dad pull back and
smile at Sheba.  Muffit turned in response to Boxey’s
motion and gave a bark.

“Oh Boxey, I’m sorry, I didn’t know you had come home
from recreational time already.”  Apollo carefully
disengaged himself from Sheba and came over to pat
Boxey on the head.  “Do you want to go to watch the
Triad games with Sheba and I?”  Apollo looked at Sheba
as if cueing her on her line.  

“It would be great to have you along Boxey.”  Sheba
said, but her smile was not the same as the one she’d
had earlier when Apollo smiled at her.  

“Can I bring Muffey?”  Boxey looked to his dad
expectantly.

Apollo said, “Of course” at the same time Sheba
started to say “Leave him home, it will be easier.” 
Apollo and Sheba looked at each other, and Apollo said
in a voice that seemed to settle the matter, “You can
do whatever you want Boxey.  Why don’t you change from
your play clothes and we can go.”

“Okay dad.”  Boxey headed into his room and shut the
door.

Sheba groaned, then hastened to defend herself as
Apollo looked displeased.  “It’s just that droid is
bulky.  We’ll have to buy him his own seat on the
shuttle and at the games.”

“Yes, I know.  But Boxey needs him.  You don’t know
how he was after the destruction.  That daggit is all
that kept him going.”

“Yes, I know, but Apollo, it’s not a daggit.  It’s
just a droid.”

“Didn’t you have a blanket or stuffed animal that you
loved when you were little?  Or a pet perhaps?” 
Apollo asked, trying to picture Sheba as a little
girl.  

“Not that I can remember and pets are just a nuisance.
 All that feeding and cleaning up their droppings.”  

“Ahhh…that explains a lot.”  Apollo said as if it
explained away all of Sheba’s mental defects.

“What is that supposed to mean?”  Sheba said
defensively.

“Maybe it’s something about boys, but boys need to
have things to love and take care of.  It’s a classic
in most of our media, a boy and his daggit.”

“But Apollo, it’s not a daggit.”

“To Boxey it is.”

“What are you talking about?”  Boxey asked as he came
out of his room.  

“Oh nothing.  Boxey, did I ever tell you about my
daggit when I was growing up?  He was a golden
retriever.”  

They left the compartment, Boxey’s hand in Apollo’s,
Sheba holding Apollo’s other hand.  Trailing behind,
panting and dripping distilled water in a programmed
attempt to show his love and devotion, no matter what,
came Muffit.  Boxey turned and said, “Hurry up Muffit.
 We don’t want to miss the warm-ups.”  Muffit barked
his agreement and imitated a daggit smile, a smile he
would have for Boxey, no matter what.