POLAR's Dad: The bear facts
Meet Polar, my companion since I was
four years old. He’s a
small, plush polar bear about half a metre long.
Over the years, he’s suffered countless indignities: snot, vomit, tears, food and drink, minor plastic surgery to replace worn parts (including a botched nose job) and multiple spins in the washing machine.
Consequently, Polar is a little the worse for wear. He has a bald spot between his eyes. Elsewhere, the plush has worn thin enough to show his seams and stitching.
The black felt that hasn’t been replaced is much in need of it, and the spin cycle during the most recent (near-fatal) trip in the Whirlpool pushed his stuffing out of alignment. Much vigorous massage later, his neck is decidedly floppy and his legs only ‘bear’ his weight if carefully positioned.
The more heartless among you might wonder why I have not condemned Polar to the great stuffed animal graveyard in the sky. Roughly every two years, I sort through my sentimental junk and have a clear-out.
So Polar has survived at least a dozen opportunities to be eliminated. In the back of my mind, I always had Polar earmarked for handing on to the next generation.
However, a recent encounter with our little neice (who is three) may have changed my thinking. After attempting to determine Polar’s sex, she swung him around by his three-decades-old ears and threw him at the wall. It was painful to watch a distinguished animal suffer such indignities.
Jasper’s nana brought him over a very cute brown bear from England and I am looking forward to him being old enough to appreciate, and name, the newcomer.
Just as Jasper will always be my little man, Polar will always be my little bear. I hope Jasper faces the same dilemma with his own child one day (but not too soon!). Sleep well.
