The Chosen Bear

 

and I, who was chosen by him.

I've never been the best at naming things. Take, for example, my pet goldfish, Goldie, who was named after the color of his scales. Or maybe my teddy bear Lake Tahoe, who was named after his place of origin and the letters stitched onto his round belly.

I guess, then, it would be more accurate to say that I name things by the first word that comes to mind, especially when it comes to inanimate objects. Sometimes that's their color. Sometimes that's their origin. The most creative I've ever gotten was when I was in my food phase, where I had an entire line of dolls named things like Biscuit, Vanilla, Butterscotch, or Cinnamon.

One of my dolls was named Harrod. Harrod was named after the words printed on his light emerald-colored ribbon. He's a very plain bear; in fact, he's probably the most teddy-bearish teddy-bear I own. But despite his ordinary appearance, I loved Harrod.

Why I loved Harrod so much is a mystery. All I know is that he had become special at some point. I loved him the most out of all of my other dolls, both the ones that came before and the ones that came after. Even at a young age, I was very conscious of this fact, so I put extra care into patting each of my dolls' heads goodnight in order to maintain the peace and harmony of my bed. But all that was to hide the fact that only Harrod had the highest (at least, that's what I thought of it as) privilege of sleeping in my arms every night.

Harrod still holds a special place in my heart. The reasons behind that will probably never be known, as all of the memories of our first meeting have long since been forgotten. But the reasons don't really matter anymore. There isn't anything special about him, rather, it's Harrod's existence itself that's special to me.