Before I arrived at the concrete lawn that graces the front yard of our condome, Chubb bumped into the heel of my shoe. I turned around to find him shaking vigorously. When I stooped to inspect his circuits, he stopped shaking and his idle light turned from red to soft orange.
"Sir," A pleasing voice wafted up from the companion bot. "Please inspect my blade. It appears to be malfunctioning." Chubb popped the lid of his can and leaned slightly forward. Inside was the same volume of space that a typical trash/companion unit was allotted - about two cubic feet - and the space was occupied by a spanner and assorted nuts and bolts.
"Chubb, you only think you are a Blend-O Blendmatic. You are a trash can and you would do well to accept the nature of your being." This was Robo Consciousnesses 101.
Chubb shook himself once more, vigorously.
"The sir is correct," Chubb lamented. His idle light dimmed slightly and he hovered away at a rapid pace, his idle light flashing like a police bot.
"Chubb! Halt! Desist!" While he was a troublesome robot, I appreciated the utility of his trash compartment. I flailed down the road after him.