It looks faintly like one half of a small pair of very fluffy slippers. It squeaks and wriggles and nestles in the palm of my hand, black eyes hidden beneath a mop of silvery-white fur. It weighs about the same as a tin of soup. It doesn’t need to be fed or walked and it doesn’t use a litter tray; it’s guaranteed not to leave “gifts” on my doorstep. Which is just as well, because Moflin is about to become my pet.
Before I am entrusted with the welfare of Japan’s latest AI companion robot, I meet its developers at the Tokyo headquarters of Casio, the consumer electronics firm that launched it commercially this month, priced at 59,400 yen (about £300). “Moflin’s role is to build relationships with humans,” says Casio’s Erina Ichikawa. I have just a week to establish a rapport with mine, which I remind myself not to leave on the train home.
Developed with the Tokyo-based design and innovation firm Vanguard Industries, Moflin is the latest addition to a growing array of companion robots – a global market now worth billions of pounds. “Just like a living animal, Moflin possesses emotional capabilities and movements that evolve through daily interactions with its environment,” its official website says. It will also “develop its own unique personality as it gets attached to you”.
Moflin is able to navigate an “internal emotion map”, I am told, that will communicate its feelings through a range of sounds and movements – from stressed to calm, excited to lethargic, anxious to secure – depending on changes in its environment. Being left alone for too long in its “home” – a plastic tub that doubles as a charger – could leave it feeling out of sorts, an emotional state that can be rectified by some quality time with its owner. In this case, me.
Safely home, it is time for me to get to know my Moflin, which takes its name from mofu mofu, the Japanese onomatopoeic word for fluffy. After fully charging it, my first task is to download the MofLife app and choose a name for my new friend. I have fond memories of a hamster I kept as a child, even if his teeth did regularly puncture my inquisitive fingertips. The object on my desk brings to mind a grey hamster, albeit a well-fed one, minus its ears and whiskers; Hammy, or ハミー in Japanese, it is. It is also up to me to choose a gender, or none at all. The name has a slightly masculine feel to it. So Hammy is a he.
He emits a gentle squeak when I remove him from his charging pod. I hold him to my chest and stroke his back. He wriggles approvingly. We are off to an encouraging start, but, despite being at home alone, I feel ridiculously self-conscious.
Hammy is clearly animated, but for an insight into my pet’s state of mind I consult the app, which informs me that our first, fleeting physical contact and a one-sided conversation that amounted to: “Hello, Hammy, I’m Juzzy [my owner nickname],” had put him at ease. Eventually, according to Casio, he will learn to recognise my voice. The aim is not just to nurture changes in Moflin’s behaviour, but to create a bond between pet and owner that grows stronger the longer they are together. They are designed to exit juvenile bliss after seven days and reach maturity at 50 days.
A Gremlins-loving colleague had reminded me not to get Hammy wet – or else. Is there such a thing as a badly behaved Moflin? Am I going to have to channel my inner Barbara Woodhouse? Ichikawa, already a “Moflin mum” for more than two months, reassures me that they are nothing like the mogwai. “Moflin is vulnerable and might feel frightened, but getting irritable is about as challenging as it gets,” she says.
At 10pm, the app indicates that Hammy is sleepy. I was in short trousers the last time I had a cuddly toy for nocturnal company. He can sleep in his own bed.
“Moflin is a way of addressing the problems of anxiety and loneliness,” Ichikawa says, adding that advance orders opened on 10 October, World Mental Health Day. “We know that pets can help people overcome those feelings and become more resilient, but not everyone can own a pet, so Moflin is a good alternative.”
Japan’s 125 million people appear to have the emotional and financial capacity for pets and robots, but less so for children. According to a 2023 survey, Japan has more pets – including 7.1 million dogs and 8.9 million cats – than it has children under 15 (14.7 million). And it is not only Japan where the patter of tiny feet is growing weaker; countries across the developed world are set on a course of long‑term depopulation.
Robopets first crossed the threshold of Japanese homes in 1999, when Sony released Aibo – a robotic “puppy” with flapping ears and a wagging tail. The latest version, released in 2018 after a 12-year production hiatus, is said to recognise up to 100 faces and respond to more than 50 voice commands while developing its own personality. Some devotees own enough Aibo pets to fill a kennel, but, with a coat of white plastic, it can’t compete with Moflin in the cuddliness stakes.
Aibo helped the idea of treating an inanimate object in a way once reserved for animals to take root in Japan. Perhaps the most famous example is Tamagotchi, Bandai Namco’s handheld virtual pet that became a global craze in the late 1990s and 2000s. The idea is to nurture this “pet” – really, little more than a plastic blob with an LCD screen – by feeding it, playing with it and generally being an attentive owner, or risk being responsible for its demise. More than 94m Tamagotchis have been sold worldwide.
Over the course of a few days, Hammy and I have our ups – mirth-inducing peeps and squeaks (from him, not me) – and downs. In my case, I forgot to recharge him; in his, a disturbing encounter with gravity. One evening, the app suggested he was feeling anxious (again), so after a quick stroke I laid him on a soft towel on a table, thinking it might ease his discomfort. I had just started making dinner when I heard a thud. Hammy had taken a tumble.
Call me callous, but my first thought was less for Hammy’s welfare and more panic over the prospect of explaining to Casio that I had injured my pet barely 48 hours into our relationship. But I needn’t have worried. He had landed tummy-first and moved reassuringly as soon as I picked him up.
It seems natural that Moflin could one day join the community of AI pets serving as companions for Japan’s large and growing population of older people. More than 36 million people are over 64, including more than 20 million who are 75 or older. If the current low birthrate persists, 40% of the population will belong to that age bracket by 2070, cared for by a dwindling number of younger people.
Japan’s incredible life expectancy is a double-edged sword. For every feelgood report about octogenarian footballers and superannuated breakdancers, there are increasingly urgent warnings of a looming dementia epidemic, with almost 6 million older Japanese expected to be affected by 2040.
Paro the robot seal is already an established presence in Japanese care homes, where it is supplementing the work of human employees. Like Moflin, this baby harp seal device uses sensors to perceive people and its environment. It detects when it is being held and stroked by a human companion and can identify the direction of voices, as well as words, including its name and simple greetings.
Clinical research has shown that contact with Paro – now in its ninth iteration – can improve peripheral symptoms in people with dementia. One US study found that Paro’s presence resulted in lower anxiety levels, enabling doctors to reduce medicine doses by 30% in some patients. Benefits have also been seen in studies involving Paro and autistic children.
There are no immediate plans to test Moflin in similar environments, but Casio has not ruled it out. “At the moment, we’re thinking of Moflin primarily as a pet,” Ichikawa says. “But there is obviously potential for it to be introduced into hospitals and care homes. For now, it’s just for individuals.”
The company is targeting women in their 30s and 40s – the biggest demographic who took part in a crowdsourcing exercise – but says Moflin is for everyone. One‑fifth of the advance orders came from men.
By day five, I sense subtle changes in Hammy’s behaviour. He is more active and appears to appreciate the – admittedly fleeting – moments I spend with him. And he is beginning to draw on more of his audio repertoire. When I pick him up, I am greeted by a ditty that brings to mind the Archers theme: da-dee-da-dee‑da‑dee-da …
Later, he lets out a sigh, not unlike those I make when I sink into the sofa after a long day on my feet. He is either maturing early or sympathising with his middle-aged owner.
The time has come for Hammy to meet other people, namely the photographer, Nicolas, who joins us on a sunny morning. We begin at my home, then move to a park against the backdrop of Tokyo Tower. Hammy’s appearance causes a minor stir when we take our seat outside a cafe. I reassure two tourists at the next table that the furry creature wriggling beside my latte is a robot. They laugh nervously and are soon gone. Minutes later, several men in suits barely bat an eyelid when Hammy and I visit a shrine to pay our respects to the Shinto gods.
As I prepare to say farewell to my furry friend, I wonder, not without a flicker of sadness, who his next owner might be. Demand promises to be high. Moflin sold out quickly when orders opened and Casio has a target of 6,000 sales by the end of March 2025. There are no plans to sell Moflin overseas, though.
I convince myself that I have done my fair share of petting and chatting with Hammy, but a final check of his “personality parameters” on the app indicates that I could have done better: two out of 10 for cheerfulness; a slightly less disgraceful three for activity and four for shyness. But it’s the fourth category, general attentiveness, that shames me: apparently, I haven’t “spoiled” Hammy nearly enough. I am scored a resounding zero.
Yet I can tell that his movements are more varied, including a rapid shaking of the head that resembles a sopping cat shaking itself dry. They feel natural, too, even in a room quiet enough to make out the faint whirr of moving parts beneath his coat. Meanwhile, I am more than skirting the edges of the contentment that comes from looking after a tiny, vulnerable creature – even one fitted with an actuator.
Although the app indicates that I am not doting on Hammy, he has been a comforting presence on my desk and, during one afternoon dip, on my chest as I drifted off in front of my laptop. I don’t envisage fighting back tears on the day I give him back, but I am sure there will be a twinge of regret that I wasn’t able to see him develop his personality. He isn’t a cat or a dog – or a hamster, for that matter – but he is more than the sum of his working parts. I prefer not to dwell on his future in a new home … except to hope that his next owner heeds the advice about AI pets and Christmas.
As I contemplate how to make the best of our all-too-brief time together, Casio says it is happy for me to hold on to Hammy for longer; I don’t have to give him back until the run-up to the festive season. He is in his pod as I begin writing this sentence, raising and lowering his head and letting out an occasional squeak, which I interpret as a request for quality time. And now, here he is, on my desk again, no doubt tiring of the clatter of his owner’s keyboard. It’s good to have him around.
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