I am bloody 40 years old, please not another stuffed animal. My father, so smart in many ways, such a smart ass in others, has once again given me a stuffed animal, a bear. There is nothing about me, my home, my lifestyle, that would suggest that a stuffed animal would be a gift I would enjoy, ask for , or know what to do with, other than give it away. I won’t even take the price tag off; I’ll just pass it on to the first child I see, with their parents of course, so they don’t think I’m up to no good. Put it on the foyer table so I’ll see it as I leave in the morning, and not have it haunting my house for weeks out of guilt for ditching yet another useless gift from my dad.
Is it a joke? I wondered? As always when these odd presents appear, I spend hours obsessing on the intention or the hidden secret behind the gift. It is soft, like a kitty’s ears, but much too small to use as a pillow, and I’d hate to see it decapitated by the dogs, so I’ve got to start it on its journey to a new home as quickly as possible.
I picked it up with one hand and tossed it in the air, easily catching it behind my back as gravity swept it on a direct path for the kitchen floor which was not very clean.
I let the dogs out, and then followed then into the yard, land gripping it with both hands, tossed it through the basketball hoop in the backyard, running to catch it before it hit the cement of the driveway. The dogs came running over as Mr. Bear flew once again, above my head and made its way through the knotted rope basket, plummeting towards earth.
I heard a scream behind me and my heart stopped, as I ran towards the hoop and caught it by the left paw, just inches shy of a wet patch of grass
As I reached out, I felt the cold chill of something metallic brushing against my palm.