Piggy
sits there on the bed, his usual silly laughing face awaiting me. He always looks like that, whether I’m awake
or not. He is, after all, a puppet.
This morning, before my eyes were
even open, I asked him, “Is it time to wake up yet?” His reply:
“I don’t know. I can’t tell
time.”
Piggy has
been on a vacation of sorts. Wedged
between our sets of pillows, he’s been hiding out from his other stuffed
brothers and having a great time. He’s
with “the grownups.” (This fact may be
debatable, but . . . there you are.)
He’s happy to be there in the morning, happy when we come to bed at
night, happy when we come into the one air-conditioned room to read. He is a happy camper.
He also has
a good sense of humor, although I wish he’d move on from his current
repertoire. Being a hand puppet himself,
he thinks it funny when I get out of bed and, if naked, he quips “I can see
where the hand goes!”
At night, if
any one of the “kids” is allowed on the bed, their job is to protect us from
our dreams. There’s no problem giving
them editorial control—whatever they choose to allow in is acceptable, although
I must admit that Piggy’s judgement is at times quite questionable. He seems to enjoy the lurid dreams, the scary
and disorienting ones, and that tells me that the source of his smiling, sparkling
personality might in fact be more troublesome, if I stop to think about
it. I admonish him, but he shrugs (as
well as he can) and that is his answer—take it or leave it.
He is not
looking forward to returning to the corner with his brothers, which is often on
top of a pile of clothes. Nor does he
want to go to the nasty “apartment’ on top of the dresser—it’s dusty and overcrowded. So the bed just now is like a luxury condo,
all things being relative. It’s his
country retreat.
When I ask
him if it’s time to wake up in the morning (or from an afternoon catnap), he
grins and tells me “I can’t tell time.
Stuffed animals can’t tell time.”
Yes, he
knows full well he is a stuffed animal.
That’s neither here nor there.
There are limitations, to be sure, but there is also freedom from too
many rules and responsibilities. He is
bubbly and cheerful and dedicated to having fun. He never needs to be taken
outside to “do his business.” And he’s very good at listening and responding
and giving consolation. He is an expert
at comfort. It’s very hard for me to
reach the bottom of despair when he or one of his brothers is there, sharing
the moment. He knows he is stuffed, but
in his own way, he is indeed very, very real.
(I did once have to get rid of a fake fur blanket, as you can imagine
the reaction. Someone else had the
nightmares that evening.)
“I can’t
tell time. You could sleep more. You could get up right now.”
And as I
think about it, there is a definite advantage to stuffed animals not being able
to tell time, aside from missing their favorite TV shows. (It’s okay, though,
as they enjoy them most when we are there to watch with them.) They sit there for long stretches of time,
either because we are too busy or simply being neglectful. If they were truly aware and mindful of
time’s passage, they would be very bored and also quite sad. Unlike dogs, who also can’t tell time but find
each moment till our return interminable, or cats, who are happy to be temporarily
free of human interruption, stuffed animals depend on us in order to activate
and come alive.
Fortunately, that means that each
moment with us blends into the next and the gaps in between disappear. Those plush creatures who live with children
do get tired, as they are on duty constantly, and perhaps they ultimately wear
themselves out. Those lucky enough to
get grownup owners are fortunate indeed—plenty of rest, appropriate amounts of
attention, and a very long life compared to their fellow countrymen. So being unable to tell time is truly an
asset for stuffed animals. They can
never be truly bored—or so they tell me.
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