Stuffed animals were by far my favorite playthings as a child. At one point, I probably had over 50 of them. They all had distinct personalities and socio-economic standings. Here are descriptions of three that my sister Tracey and I played with most often-

Buffy is a stuffed toy dog that I received for probably my fifth birthday. He is anthropomorphic, with limb arrangement more like a human or a teddy bear then like a dog.

He has tousled yellow hair which was probably quite soft and fuzzy before being  dragged all over the place and matted, and big flat brown eyes that look slightly to the left. This gives him the expression of averting his eyes while trying to think up a lie.

Buffy has multiple personality disorder, and is possibly a sociopath.

“Buffy” is a cynical petty gangster,  Archie Bunker-esque, but with a villain’s agenda. He was sarcastic to his wife Henrietta (a comely peach colored cocker spaniel toy), and was always trying to run a scam on the other stuffed animals, and he wasn’t above petty theft. If they invited him over for a tea party, some of the silverware always went missing. They could never figure out how he sneaked the purloined items out, since he never wore clothing and didn’t have pockets.

Then “Bufferin” would make an appearance. Bufferin always had his ears immaculately arranged for maximum volume, his fur is smoothed down and sometimes combed out only on the top of his head. He is as prissy as Buffy is evil. He is British, and probably gay. His pontificating and perfectionism make keeping company with the caustic Buffy practically appealing. Bufferin will never steal your teaspoons, but he is a crashing bore.

“Pierre” comes out when Buffy is trying to be persuasive. his hair is parted down the middle,  his upper lip pinched into a semblance of a pencil moustache. He is French, and seductive, but shallow and insincere. All the other animals are never taken in by his wiles.

Buffy’s best friend is Honey (I was super original with names) the Bear. Honey is a fairly run of the mill seventies teddy bear, with a big head and a little pink lower lip that gives him a playful, game, expression. He is affable, and easily taken in by Buffy’s schemes. Not much of a personality, but big, dumb, and sweet.

Until Seymour comes out to play.

Seymour is Honey, but with a horrible cranial disfigurement created by squeezing his head with both hands to recede his pink lower lip, also causing his eyes to bulge and his snout to protrude. The other toys try not to stare, and attempt to be kind, but all Seymour hears when they say “Hiiiiii Seymour!” are taunts that amplify in his head until he is driven to mass murder all the other toys that he perceives are bullying him.

Which brings me finally, to Sheryl the Mouse. She is a tiny stuffed toy, a grey mouse with pink ears wearing a little floral print dress. When she was manufactured, whoever placed her red felt teardrop shaped mouth placed it a little crooked, which gave her a sarcastic expression that belied her demure ears and attire. Sheryl the Mouse is Buffy and Henrietta’s child.

I didn’t like female stuffed animals when I was a kid. So when Mom gave me the feminine little mouse as a souvenir from a trip she had taken with her sisters, I was a little disappointed. Tracey immediately seized Sheryl and made a farting noise as she held the mouse on top of Henrietta’s head. Our hysterical laughter from this action then set Sheryl’s personality from that day. Sheryl didn’t speak or squeak, as would become a mouse. She farted.  On everyone. And it was funnier every time.

Henrietta, in desperation, took Sheryl to the doctor once  (Honey on a non Seymour murder rampage day) and came home and told Buffy in an exasperated voice that the doctor told her “There’s nothing wrong with Sheryl, but for some reason she can fart at will”. Don’t worry, she’s not psychotic. She just has chronic gas.

I must say, I started this post as a fun peek into my childhood, and to exercise some memory/descriptive muscles, but as I read back over this post, it occurs to me how effed up we were.  Maybe I need to exorcise instead of exercise. All the male characters were schizo, the females bossy or longsuffering, but fairly normal. We cooked up some wicked plots involving subjects from embezzlement to bullying to murder. You can call it imagination, I suppose. Or maybe I should see a therapist. They’d probably tell me it’s just gas.

 

 

Memoir #memoir #toys