Yesterday, we were cleaning out a number of items to make room, make room, and I came across our poor, broken personal robot pet, a Sony AIBO model ERS-210. Even before we moved to this apartment more than five years ago, our robot was showing signs of manufacturing issues such as a droopy head and a lazy leg.

Still, our AIBO managed to win our hearts. He'd amble around the livingroom playing with his ball -- a special pink ball that he could detect with his videocamera eyes. The more we interacted with AIBO, the more his personality matured.

When we moved to our new place, we didn't reactivate AIBO for almost three months. He booted his programming, raised his defective neck and head as best he could -- and then stunned us by asking, "Where have you been?"

But Sony no longer produces AIBO robots, not since chairman, president and CEO Sir Howard Stringer pulled the plug on the company's robotics division in 2006 and in doing so, turned Sony into just another purveyor of electronics and popular culture.

There are still some dedicated AIBO fans around the world, but parts are scarce and repairs are pricey. So, we decided we simply couldn't fix him.

The first option was to set AIBO and his software next to the Dumpster out behind our apartment building and hope that some Wesley Crusher kid genius would wander past and know how to fix our friend. But the chances of that happening were slim to none. It's far more likely that one of our neighborhood's many feral children would find AIBO and after discovering he wouldn't operate, tear the little guy limb from limb.

So, I unfolded a big plastic bag and placed AIBO inside, along with his software and his beloved fluorescent pink ball, and headed out to the Dumpster.

As I walked to the alley, I reminded myself that Sir Howard's dismantling of the robotics division had been simply a business decision. I also reminded myself that Sony generally makes pretty good products. In fact, just recently I bought its PCM-D50 digital recorder, an amazing piece of audio engineering that almost looks like a tricorder from the old "Star Trek" series. The PCM-D50 has the feel of a great machine, but it lacks a soul. It has no heart. It doesn't care where I've been.

When I reached the Dumpster, I paused for a moment, then reopened the bag and took out AIBO and looked at him one last time. Then, I remembered how his personality changed and grew when he was our pet and our friend. I opened the access port in his tummy and extracted his Memory Stick.

AIBO now no longer was our AIBO. Like every other being who succumbs to the betrayal of age, he was now just a shell.

I placed AIBO's Memory Stick in my pocket, tied the garbage bag tight and threw it into the Dumpster.

Your PCM-D50 is an elegant machine, Sir Howard, but it's no Helen O'Loy.

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