Buckled into the front passenger seat of my Honda CRV is a medium size teddy bear. The scruffy kind. His golden eyes stare dutifully ahead. Even when I hit snow drifts and his ear shook from the weight of his thick Vermont Teddy Bear tag: he remained resolute.

I bought him earlier today. At a pastel colored factory with a view of snow capped mountains and a sliver of Lake Champlain. When the little dark haired boy at the register asked me who he was for – I did not say for myself. But Bear knew he belonged to me. Upon checkout I stopped them from sealing him up inside a brown cardboard box. No worries, I explained, I can carry him out. As if I was environmentally conscious instead of emotionally needy.

I won’t name him beyond ‘Bear.’
Bear seems about right.

When my kids were little they called their goldfish “fishy,” their mouse “mousy” and their long-haired hamster “fluffy.” I used to laugh at what appeared to be a lack of imagination before chalking it up to language reinforcement.

We also had a gerbil called Blackie. (He was black, of course.) Upon returning home one afternoon my daughter and I stumbled upon an unfortunate scene. His little wire cage had been ripped apart, and he was being freshly spit out from our terriers mouth: his body wet and irreparably broken.

With both hands wrapped tightly around the dog’s collar, my daughter dragged her to the bathroom and slammed the door shut behind them. Rushing to listen, ear to closed door, I heard her say over and over “I forgive you, I forgive you, I forgive you – but you should not have done this terrible thing.”

My heart broke in that impossible moment.
To have such a little girl.

I look at Bear now and he tells me to stop being so sentimental.
He tells me that it’s just part of the stuff of life – like his own recycled cotton stuffing. Just another

Dog
Gerbil
Girl
Mom
Bear.