This is my teddy bear. Not the kid’s bear or one I just happened to pick up somewhere along the way, but MY bear.
Mr. Ted E. Bear was adopted for me shortly after I was born. A British bear of distinction, he met up with my equally distinguished and British grandfather, somewhere in England. They then travelled together back across the pond to meet me, in all my squalling glory.
Poor Teddy. He’s not very cuddly, as his bristly fur and straw-stuffed nature both add to his standoffishness. Despite that, it seems like it took only a few short years for his fur to be loved off in all the right places.
The faux-suede pads on his paws and feet are cracked and worn. His squeaker, and he does have one evidenced by the raw and dented spot in the middle of his chest – gave up the ghost a few years ago. Any attempts to revive it look like some sort of life-saving medical procedure.
He’s getting a little old for that.
One paw, his left one, is turned outwards. A little girl was fond of Winnie The Pooh, and Christopher Robin had dragged his bear – thump, thump, thump – down that stairs by one arm. So the little girl did too.
Until she got too big for bears, and he sat on the shelf. Watching and waiting. Slightly sad, but still distingushed. One day, he came off the shelf, only to be manhandled in a most undistinguished way by more small children. Thank Goodness he was rescued amongst a familiar sounding voice breathing admonishments.
He got loved a little more often after that. But very carefully.