To be loved so thoroughly that one’s nose has been rubbed
off is a privilege. At least I
keep telling myself this, although at times I do feel slightly vulnerable. A giraffe of my status--one who has been
discontinued--is worth quite a bit and I make sure that despite my lack of
nose..and my unfortunate name (which, in some cultures is a term for excrement)
I continue to carry myself with dignity.
When I was new, my fur was
soothing and silky to the touch. I
was a beautiful lemon yellow with soft pink spots. My body flowed out into a
blanket shape, each
corner tipped with aqua green hooves. My little ears flapped when I moved and
I held my pink tipped horns at a stately angle. My tail was a colorful conglomeration of pastel ribbons, designed
to tease and tickle tiny fingers.
I was a gift for a child of only 3 months, who promptly,
upon meeting me, put me in her mouth.
At first, I was horrified by the saliva on my previously pristine fur,
but eventually I got used to the feeling of being sucked and chewed on and I
took pride in my role as “favorite blankie,” despite the insulting title and
the general hardships of my life.
I had to learn to sleep creatively—preferably on the floor
or jammed between the wall and the mattress-- to prevent nightly suffocation. My
frequent escapes from bed caused the child to shriek in despair, which in turn drew
the exhausted parents into the room to crash about in the middle of the night
trying to find me. I never managed to hide for long and all the ruckus was a
bit unnerving so I focused on inching myself over onto the side of her pillow
and that’s how we spent our evenings together.
I was frequently dragged about by tail and horns, stuffed
into bags and boxes and suitcases, dropped from great heights into dirt and mud
and, most terrifyingly, thrown into a machine that first doused me with water
and then battered me for hours.
Wet and exhausted, I was then tossed into a loud, hot chamber, where I
tumbled around for what seemed like an endless eternity.
But I was loved. And it was a love I couldn’t escape, a possessive
and undying love that took my nose and stained my person with bodily
fluids. A love that I didn’t
appreciate until the day I got lost.
It was a cold, but sunny winter day and the grandparents
were visiting. As usual, the child
insisted that I come with her and I looked forward to a day outside of the
house. It was nice to get some
fresh air and I enjoyed seeing the city sights. The distractions of the outside world gave me a reprieve
from the constant stroking and squeezing that the child inflicted upon me. But it also presented other challenges,
particularly when the grandparents were around and there seemed to be no end to
the drips from untidily licked ice cream cones. But still, I considered myself a giraffe of culture and felt
that it was my duty to see the sights of London so I welcomed the chance to
educate myself.
On that fateful day, we were headed to Covent Garden. There was some discussion between the
grandmother, a great enthusiast of flea markets and the grandfather (decidedly
NOT a great enthusiast of flea markets) about how much time would be spent
perusing the Covent Garden wares before heading to the ultimate destination:
the Transport Museum. The child’s
mother wore a glazed look and kept checking her phone and the child was focused
on pulling all of her baby wipes out of their packaging. That was when it
happened. With one enthusiastic tug and a squeal of
delight, she freed all of her wipes and sent me sailing out of the buggy and
onto the ground. I watched in horror as they trundled on, not one of them
noticing my dirtied and supine figure on the ground.
At first I was sure that I would be trampled, but somehow
managed just to be kicked around like an old piece of trash until someone
noticed me for what I was and, with a sympathetic cluck, draped me over a
nearby railing. That gave me hope,
for while I had always been treated roughly, in my opinion, my life with the
child was a far better option than spending the rest of my days draped over a
fence. Unfortunately the kindly person had draped me so that my head was
hanging upside down, so I could hear pigeons roosting above me, but could not
get a good look at just where they were positioned. It also impeded my ability
to seek out my child and her family and gave me a headache. So, confident that they would retrace
their steps and find me, I decided to take a little nap.
When I awoke, I was no longer on the fence, but smashed into
a dark and cold space that smelled of petrol. I was pinned to the floor by a heavy metal object and I
stared helplessly up at a small slit, through which a tiny ray of light shone. I have to admit that I was
terrified. Everyone had heard the
story of the Velveteen Rabbit and I wondered if I was destined for a similar
demise. I wondered if anyone would have the common decency to at least hold a
small memorial for me…or write a complimentary obituary.
At once the car (for I had determined that it was a car in
which I was hurtling through time and space) stopped, sending the metal object
crashing across my face. The last
thing I remember before fainting was a middle aged, dowdy woman reaching down
for me.
When I came to I was in a room that was filled from floor to
ceiling with stuffed animals and dolls.
Many of them were brand new and perfectly preserved with their original
tags and certificates attached. I
was in sorry, rumpled state, but this was early in my life and well before the
loss of my nose, so I pulled myself together and attempted to make small talk
with some of my fellow inmates, who I suspected could shed some light on my
situation.
From inside of her unopened box, a vintage Barbie informed
me that we were part of the Dowdy Woman’s collection. We were all, she said,
discontinued, which meant that the company that had originally manufactured us,
no longer did. We had been
replaced by new designs and new lines to keep up with the trends and the fickle
desires of children around the world.
But before she could explain what the dowdy woman was planning to do
with all of us, my captor appeared and picked me up.
I could smell the coffee on her breath as she she tutted and
crooned, rubbing my fur and examining my stains. I suddenly missed the sweet
and inoffensive breath of the child in a way that I never had before. The Dowdy
Woman then crossed into the kitchen and tossed me into the terrible washing
machine with a particularly distasteful detergent called Borax. I had only ever
experienced ecologically friendly and hypoallergenic detergents, and the Borax
was an insult to my skin, leaving me feeling raw and peeled. But it did, I
admit, get the stains out, and I felt very handsome despite all the
manhandling.
After my deep clean and a slow dry on the radiator, the
woman set me down on a fluffy blanket and began taking pictures of me. When she was satisfied, she tossed me
back onto the shelf with the others before plopping down onto a groaning chair
and turning on computer.
I contemplated this. Computers have always been part of my
life. My child’s parents sometimes spent more time staring at their computers
than they did at each other or at their own offspring...and this thought sent another
pang through my heart. What if she
had to spend the rest of her life without someone to look at, to hold, to
confide in, to comfort and be comforted by? What if I had to spend the rest of my life on a shelf with
discontinued dolls in the same state!? I realized then, that all that
suffocating and chewing was an expression of love and that I loved her,
too. She wasn’t an
inconvenience…she was my child and I missed her dreadfully!
The days went by and the Dowdy Woman frequently checked her
computer, occasionally looking back at me with an expression of disbelief. Every day there were new arrivals to my
shelf and several of my shelf mates were bundled off, never to be seen again.
No one knew what happened to them.
After about a
week it was my turn to be plucked off the shelf to meet my fate. The Dowdy
Woman cocked her head at me and guffawed. “Fifty-Five pounds…well, YOU sure
were a lucky find!”
Before I knew what was happening, she wrapped me in some
tissue paper and tied a ribbon around me then stuffed me into a padded envelope. From inside of the envelope, I could
hear the sound of packing tape and the scratching of her pen writing an
address. A little later I fell
from a great height into the bowels of what I can only assume was a Royal Mail
Post Box. Where I was going, I
couldn’t know. Maybe I was to be sent off to some horrible place where raggedy,
unloved toys gathered dust and dry rotted. Maybe I was to be incenerated…or
worse, to be a chew toy for a new puppy!
The Royal Mail is not a smooth ride, so by the time I
reached my destination I was battered and bruised. I felt limp and drained and
resigned to my fate, whatever it may be.
I had failed my little girl by falling from the buggy, so whatever
happened to me was what I deserved….
But wait! From
inside of my parcel pack, I could sense something very familiar…noises and
smells and voices. With a squeal,
my little girl ripped open the packaging. “Dou Dou! My Dou Dou!” She smothered me and kissed me and
tossed me into the air. I gazed
into her eyes and if I could have cried I would have. No amount of smothering
would ever convince me that I belonged anywhere but here. And as she carried me off, I heard the
mother say to the father, “Thank God for that horrible woman on Ebay. The baby doesn’t even seem to notice
that he’s a different one…”
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