Say Hello To My Little Friend

Captured at a cleaner time

Meet Bear. At least, I think he's a bear. Let me take another look. Yep. All Bear. There's no proof of his gender, but I'm just pegging him a dude, mainly because in this house, I've always been outnumbered. There a boy, here a boy, everywhere a boy-boy, human, canine or otherwise. This is where grown-up boys and dogs congregate to watch sports, fart, burp and yell. This is why Bear is a guy. But where did this so-called Bear come from, you wonder. Back in October, he hitched a ride with Sir Blakey and decided to stay, preferably indoors -- on the sofa, the chair, or, more often than not, the floor.

Dirty Bear

Lately, Bear spends much of his time outdoors, getting dragged through the mud, tossed in the air, and dragged through the mud again by Sir Blakey. Personally, I think he deserves better. So every day, I rescue him from his dirt bath and the loving jaws of Sir Blakey. "Say hello to my little friend," I say, channeling Al Pacino, as I give Bear a good soak and a quick tumble in the dryer. This is my new ritual. Day after day, rinse and repeat. I know, I know. It's weird. Why bother? Why assign so much importance to a dog toy? Must I be overly maternal even toward inanimate objects? Is this Bear I speak of so fondly a substitute for my imaginary childhood friend, Mrs. Salarni? No. He's real. Duh. Wait one minute there, Short Jewish Freud. Hello! Didn't the eldest have a beloved stuffed animal named Bear? Yes. So? What's the connection? There isn't one. It's just a coinky. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. Let's just say I can't quite explain this particular fixation. All I know is Bear is happier, and more importantly, cuter, clean. But then, isn't everybody? So, my plan is simple. I'll just keep washing him until one of us falls apart at the seams.