It doesn’t happen like in the movies. There are no storm clouds, no lightening flashes, and no ominous music. There certainly weren’t any when it happened to me. I had walked home from school cheerily, with a childish innocence I foolishly took for granted. The door to the house seemed to welcome me. My sister, Margaret, was sitting at the kitchen table reading a book. She didn’t even look up as I passed her, grabbed a banana from the bowl, and headed up the stairs. The door to my room was ajar, and I nudged it open with my elbow. I stopped. Horror. It was Root Bear, loyal teddy, best friend. His legs were torn off. This had to be the handiwork of the family dog, Chewbarka. I lifted Root Bear tenderly and looked deep into his brown furry face. His mouth hung open. He must’ve been in shock. He would be though. He had lost a lot of stuffing.

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Some of the kids at school called my bear dumb.  I knew better, because I, along with my best friend Katie, was one of the chosen few the bear talked to.  Granted, he rarely responded to me and often stared at me with a glazed, blank expression on his face (this was before the dog chewed off his eyes), but I took his rather laconic behaviour as a sign of unusual depth for a stuffed animal.  After all, at least he wasn’t insufferably talkative like that stupid Liza Meh Teddy in my sister’s stuffed animal collection. (more…)