But then I remembered something. A thought floated across my mind as if in a dream, it wasn’t always like this between Furbies and I…me and the Furbs….
I used to really like them. I asked for one for my 9th birthday and when I got it I was so excited I could barely speak, but the excitement was not to last, because at the time, I had a pitbull for a pet.
The next morning I awoke. What would I do with my Furby today? Stick my finger in its mouth? Turn it upside down? Do both at the same time? The options were endless. And as I wandered bleary-eyed to the family room, I could tell almost immediately that something was wrong. My Furby was not on the couch where I had left it, next to my Magnadoodle, it was in the dog bed. And my Furby did not have the beautiful, large glassy eyes I remembered, instead it had one chipped and milky gouged plastic eye stub and one gaping empty socket.
My dog had eaten my Furby’s eyes. He ate its fucking eyes.
And as, crying, I picked it up, the fur wet with slobber, it croaked out “wooah-oh-ohhh”, its beak clicking feebly, in one felled swoop scarring me for life.
It would never look at that Furby the same way again. It would sit in my closet for the next 10 years on top of my Encyclopedia Brittanica dvds until I accidentally knocked it down and it shouted “mee-mee nah bah” which I later discovered means “very down” .
Very down indeed, Furby.
Very down indeed.
What a great story.
