An Ode to Cubby

An Ode to Cubby

By Loki

Alas, poor Cubby! I knew him (her? it?) well.

You came into my life only yesterday, a cuddly, fluffy brown- and gray-toned stuffed toy to some, but to me a source of endless fun and fascination. And now, one day later--well--you're a mere shell of your former self. But more on that later.

I'm not even sure what kind of animal you were. A dog? Hedgehog? When my master first handed him to me, I thought, hopefully, that you were a possum like my friend Otis keeps on his front lawn down the street. I would have walked off with Otis's possum many times if not for my master's meddling interference (let's just say I'm not above pilfering toys from my friends' lawns).

My owners quickly named you Cubby, telling me you resembled a bear cub (incidentally, they have often called me a bear for my large, attractive blocky black head and barrel chest.) I quickly noticed you had beady dark eyes and a black nose protruding from your puffy face. Your ears were two round tufts of light brown fabric and you had a larger mat of darker brown fabric above your head and back. Strangely, you had no mouth. But that didn't seem to bother me. Eyes, ears and a large nose were enough for me. I was especially fond of your braided, rope-like arms and legs, allowing me the ease in which to pry you away from anyone attempting to steal you from me.

I discovered hidden pleasures when I bit down upon your ample brown belly. Imagine my delight in unleashing an intriguing squeaky noise! It reminded me of the squeaky noises coming from colorful balls routinely hurled at my favorite park. It was nirvana! My owners tried to ignore my obvious signs of pleasure every time I elicited that heavenly sound.

But it was that blasted, infernal squeaky noise that eventually led to your undoing.

My first reaction upon meeting you was to jump in the air, grab you in my maw and run into the bedroom, where I leapt with joy upon my master's bed. But a strange possessive streak soon came over me--sort of like when I'm handed a new smoked bone. I knew then and there that I would not share Cubby with anyone. When I ran back into to the family room, my owners made subtle attempts to grab at Cubby, which I deftly sidestepped.

I lay for hours on my back and side chewing away at Cubby's furry ears, head and back, lathering Cubby with my drool while my owners sat on the couch binge-watching a show on Netflix on the large TV.

I noticed that Cubby was starting to unravel. But I didn't seem to mind. In fact, I continued to chew away with a frenzy, as if possessed, driven by that maddening squeaking noise from within. I discovered that if I held Cubby down with my paws, I could use my large fangs to strip away clumps of brown fabric. Before long I had exposed a lime-green felt interior on Cubby's backside. WAS THAT THE SOURCE OF THE SQUEAKING NOISE? I had to find out.

But before I could go any further, my owners--perhaps jealous of the fun I was having creating a mess on the carpet--grabbed Cubby from my unsuspecting mouth and led me to my cage apartment in the bedroom. Blast! I was so close. I would have to wait another day in order to solve the mystery.

The next morning, after my owners fed and walked me, I was handed Cubby and placed back in my cage for my morning nap. But I had other plans.

No sooner had I heard the door to the bedroom shut. I went back to work on the exposed green fabric on Cubby's backside. With just a few nips, I was able to cut into the fabric, and my mouth was soon flooded with noxious white cottony puffs of synthetic fabric. Blech! The stuff tasted awful--even worse than the laundry lint--but I continued to strip away at the fluffy substance as if in a trance, knowing that I was getting closer to solving the riddle of the squeak.

As I dug deeper, I came to a small plastic ball within Cubby's belly and bit down hard. It emitted the loudest squeak yet. Eureka! I had found the source! I bit again and the plastic cracked open like a shell revealing a hard plastic object, which I regret to report I promptly swallowed.

I had destroyed the source of that beguiling squeaky noise! My cage apartment was now filled with that distasteful cottony white substance, and poor Cubby! He looked empty, having lost his full figure. His entire backside was torn open. What had I done! I rested my head in shame on my paws and tried to nap and I was soon asleep, dreaming happily of better times with Cubby.

Oh Cubby, you were mine for a full day! And now you're gone.

I suppose all of this unpleasantness could have easily been avoided if my owners had simply followed the warning attached to Cubby's tag. It stated clearly that you were a "play toy and NOT a chew toy." I truly am sorry for the damage that I caused. I can only hope that my owners heed the tag's further advice to "replace the toy if torn, frayed or shows excessive wear."