ALL THE WEIRDOS HAVE NAMES

As long as my apartment mate and I have lived here, the stuffed animals (hereinafter referred to as "the roomies") have had their own voices. They probably spoke before, but if Savage Kitten (the aforementioned apartment mate) is not around, they are silent. Mostly so.


MS. BRUIN

Five years ago, Savage Kitten and I ceased to be a couple, and became just friends. The roomies were, in their own way, supportive. When Savage Kitten went through a tough period with her new beau ("Wheelie Boy"), the chief roomie -- a valiant and wise teddy bear -- became violently inclined, and was forced to take a sabbatical, during which time the she-sheep (Angus) took over her duties. The roomies sympathised with all three of them, but fell short of co-conspiring to whack the brute.
It was an interesting time.

The guy in the wheelchair had no friends among the roomies.
Still doesn't; they don't want to meet him.
He's not their type.

[Ms. Bruin wished to lure Wheelie Boy with a trail of Swedish Princess Cake down to the pier, where just one small push would topple him into the bay. She thought the plan was failsafe, and it purely was my selfishness over the funds required that nixed that plot. Damn me!
I occassionally bring that up, because the idea does have a certain charm. That, along with giving his wheelchair a good shove down California Street, so that he becomes airborne.
But I am a man of peace, and would never do something like that.]

It's probably just as well that Ms. Bruin never did succeed in offing the sap, as Savage Kitten and Wheelie Boy got back together. And broke up again. And made peace and resumed their relationship. Then had a falling out of several months. And started dating again. Fought. Separated. Reunited.


TYRONE THIBBET

A few months after that, Miss Purr (aka 'Stormee') and Mr. Tyrone Thibbet (the froad) broke up, over the very forward attentions of Louise the Cow, which Mr. Thibbet did nothing to discourage. Sometime later the froad started acting threatening toward the one legged monkey, Urasmus Wazzoo. Who is not, strictly speaking, responsible for what he says.
He has a rich inner life, and is by no means reality-reliant.


Well, neither is the froad.


When I came home this evening, Tyrone was perched on my bed, proudly striking poses with one of my favourite pipes. That being a handsome quarter bent Peterson bulldog with a silver band, nice and squat.
Apparently he is now the famous detective, Sherlock Froad.
That's MY pipe, you green weirdo!
Mine!


The other day I had a panic attack in the morning before leaving for work, because the little black kitty had "found it". Meaning she stole the wallet, and was sitting upon it looking studiously innocent. Naturally I called her names. This was after my apartment mate had left for the day, so the kitty did not say anything, but just glared at me.
She has, at times, called me cruel and unusual.
Manifestly a weirdo.

I came home that evening to find her and the head sheep together manning a machine-gun emplacement on the northwest corner of my bed, with the fearsome weapon pointed directly at where my head should be.

Both Gigi (feline) and Snidely (ovine) have it in for me.
And now the froad is "borrowing" my stuff.
Which magically becomes his.
I feel threatened.


At some point, when the froad is asleep, I shall repossess my Peterson pipe, and head out for a quiet smoke, in a peaceful environment.

Surrounded by cigar smokers shrieking and carrying on.

Peaceful, I say, and quiet.

No weirdos!




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