My brothers and I were not easy on our stuffed friends. I still have a few of mine. Believe me, they won’t be crowned in any beauty competitions.
My little brother had a monkey (cleverly named Monkey) that smelled like a combination of steak and salad dressing. I don’t know what Monkey had gotten into, but I do know it’s not a good idea to go around smelling your brother’s things. My older brother had a fuzzy dog we called Risko. We had a tagline for Risko…Risko RISKS HIS LIFE to SAVE the others!! Proof that poor Risko lived up to that motto is that none of us can remember what happened to him. Wherever he ended up, he had to be carrying out a valiant rescue attempt.
I had a bear that underwent so many neck ‘surgeries’ that my mom finally had to crochet a collar just to keep his head on. I also had a stuffed chipmunk with tire marks on his tail. When your stuffed animals start resembling road kill, I think you’ve pretty much reached the pinnacle of toy abuse. The chipmunk and bear duo had the dubious honor of being my all-time favorites.
Here’s to the brave softies. They’re cute. They’re cuddly. They comfort us and keep us company. We repay them by biting off their noses and dropping them in the toilet.
We might have it rough. But it’s gotta be tough to be stuffed.
