This rabbit, named Bear, was the first toy ever given to Oliver. It used to have a squeaker into which Oliver could sink his tough little noshers. The squeak was loud, unnerving, and I imagine everytime Oliver got Bear to make that sound, a little bit of Bear died (probably to Oliver's delight).
It's with sadness that I share with you the news of the untimely death of friend Bear. No squeak will ever come from that poor, defenseless friend again. The only sound that emits from his tiny little toy lungs is a wheeze and a click. No squeak. Just a death rattle.
His eyes are gone, as is his nose. His ears, once perky and regal, now hang at odd angles, a broken weathervane.
His coat, once lustrious, now gnarly and patchy.
Even after all of this, the friendship goes on. Oliver will not relinquish Bear - none of his other friends will do. Not Birdie, not Bone. Oliver is steadfast, true-blue to the end.
Bear is now just a faceless, deformed and misshapen shell of what he once was - but for Oliver, that's alright. That's just fine.
There's probably a lesson here. Something along the lines of when friendship gets worn, tattered, and seemingly useless, there's always some shred of good to remember, to hang on to.
Or maybe it's just a dead rabbit.
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