I want to go and poo in the garden. If I could just get out there, I'd head straight for the apple tree, have a good sniff around, cock my leg and drench whatever's underneath and then I'd have the biggest poo the world has ever seen. Awesome.
Dream on. Forget it. It's never going to happen. So, this morning, I have made a decision. From today, I am going to stop torturing myself and accept that I'm a toy and toys don't wee or poo. I am finally going to admit to myself right now, once and for all, that I'll never be able to walk anywhere on my own because I'm permanently attached to this push-along. And as there's no chance of that ever changing, I'm never going to mention it again, not to anyone.
Just let me say this one last thing and then I promise I'll shut up about it. I try not to be jealous when I see real dogs, but either I don't try hard enough or jealousy is as much a part of me as my inability to stand on my own four paws. Watching real dogs 'performing' makes me feel pathetic and that feeling of worthlessness never hit me more than when I was admitted to this toy hospital.
It's not the hospital itself. Doctor Toby Trumperton's Animal Hospital has a first class reputation and the set-up here is quite unique. Where else can an owner bring their toy and watch it being put in a proper bed in a proper ward by a proper nurse (I don't think they're the same size as humans' hospital beds and wards. The nurse is quite big, though.) The owners can even come and visit their toy if they want to. No, it doesn't get any better than this hosiptal and Doctor Toby is one of the best toy doctors anywhere. He is also one of the world's best creators of hand-made toys.
Right from the start, I knew I was different from the other toys. Those I'd seen being admitted were signed in, photographed by Nurse Thelma, taken straight to the ward and put in a cosy bed, with their owners tagging along behind to tuck them in a say goodbye.
Not me. My owner's dad carried me in by one half of my broken handle, his arm stretched right out with me just about dangling from his fingertips. I felt like I was some dirty, smelly stray, who'd been rolling in something disgusting.
"Good morning, nurse," he said, as he lowered me to the floor. No, he didn't lower me. He dropped me. "My daughter begged me not to throw this on my next garden fire and to bring it here instead."
When he said the word 'this', he booted me, like he wanted to make certain the nurse knew who he was talking about. After all those years of being his daughter's pride and joy, I end up as an 'it' being rescued, reluctantly, from suffering the same fate as that weird-looking giant rag doll they threw on the garden fire last Bonfire Night.
"No rush," he said breezily, after he signed the admission form and had the photographs taken. "It will do whenever the doctor's read." That was two weeks ago yesterday and I can tell you, those words have made me feel as useless as a wrongly addressed envelope.
It got even worse after he left. The nurse mumbled something and grabbed the snapped handle of my push-along (one of the reasons I was in there.) She didn't bother to pick me up. She just dragged me to the operating theatre, scribbled 'Brandon' on a name tag and attached it to my collar. Then she dumped me against the leg of the table and left me leaning sideways on my remaining three wheels (another one of the reasons.) I don't like you either, nurse. I would have loved to have known what she mumbled but my ears have been torn off (yet another reason) so I can hardly hear anything.
Anyway, that's enough of me feeling sorry for myself. I want to get on with telling you all about what happened yesterday, when a teddy bear was admitted.
First of all, to explain quickly, even though we can't move about in the daytime, we can still see and hear and sometimes it's so hard not being able to react to some of the things that happen. I've nearly slipped up a few times and yesterday was the closest ever.
It all kicked off a few minutes before 9.00am. With my rubbish hearing, I only faintly made out the banging on the big glass front doors. The nurse was passing the doors with Kangaroo Skipper tucked under harm arm and I saw her jump with surprise when she heard the knocking. I think it freaked her out because it was so early.
"This has to be an emergency," I thought, craning my neck as far as I could to peer through the theatre window. I saw the nurse stride over with her bunch of keys but there wasn't enough stretch in my neck to stay craned like that, so I had to be content with discretely bobbing up and down.
I was able to grasp bits of what was going on but I had to wait until last night to find out everything from Skipper, by which time I was bursting from the seams of my fur fabric to know the story.
I need to tell you this, too. About half an hour after the hospital doors are locked at night, the town hall clock strikes six. I know it's six times because Skipper can count and read a bit and he told me when he was teaching me to count to three. That's our sort of wake up call. It's then that the toys start to climb out of their beds and wander into the operating theatre, where we spend the night meeting new inmates, as we call ourselves, and chat about our families or compare notes on injuries, and so on.
Last night was no different, except that I couldn't wait for Skipper to show his head round the door. My curiousity was ready to kll the next cat I came across but as it was the big tiger Rusty who was the first to appear I chickened out, even though he has only got three-and-a-bit legs. Sometimes I tease him, saying things like 'when you walk, one second you're 60cm tall and the next, you're only 55cm.' Or I might say, 'are you called Rusty because you were left out in the rain and you couldn't run fast enough to find shelter?' He doesn't mind, he's a good laugh, really.
"Hi Brandon," he called, as he hobbled towards me. "That ward is bursting like the doctor's gut just after he's eaten his dinner."
"Are you implying Doctor Toby's fat?"
"He's certainly no pencil."
I jumped to the doctor's defence. "He's overweight for his height, I'll give you that. He can't be more than 160cm tall. He's a bit stout, that's all. He's a good doctor, though. Is Skipper awake yet?"
"I'm not sure. Would you like me to check for you?"
At any other time, considering his plight, I would have said no, but not tonight. "Ok, if you don't mind. But don't wake him if he's sleeping. It can wait." Who was I kidding?
He limped back in less than a minute. "He said he won't be long. He's doing his daily exercises. Fitness freak."
So I waited patiently for forever. The suddenly there he was, head poking round the door, with his "G'day, mate. You wanted to see me, sport?"
He knew I hated it when he put on a thick Australian accent. There's nothing wrong with it, it can be attractive, but with no ears it's hard enough for me grasp any language right now. "In plain English, please, Skipper, what was all the fuss about this morning."
"Do you mean when that stroppy man brought the teddy bear in?"
I nodded. "He was stroppy all right."
Skipper loved an audience. He turned his head from side to side. "Gather round, everyone."
"There's only me and Rusty here."
"That'll do. Are you all ready for this?"
"Just get on with it."
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