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Cushpig

March 18, 2012

He sits on my bed, his googly eyes, flappy ears, bigs snout and little pink trotters endearing to me. I don’t know why I call him ‘he’, but I do. It is easy to imagine that he has thoughts and feelings, for he has eyes in a face, and all things with faces and eyes must have a personality, must they not?

That he is merely some material in a piggy sort of shape, filled out with stuffing seems an insult to his little soul. I could no more sit upon him than I could on a real, live animal. That this is stupid I know, with the logical part of me, but I cannot help it. Cushpig has personhood for me. I sometimes smile at him and talk to him. He seems to understand. He’s always a sympathetic ear and he never argues or makes me feel bad. He’s a reliable friend. His lack of conversation is very relaxing. He never talks nonsense. He’s a wise creature, sitting musing in silence.

Cushpig makes me laugh, just by looking the way he does. Sometimes I kiss him. He is a lovely colour – pink; one of my favourites. When I wake in the morning, his eyes are sometimes the first thing I see, there on the bed beside me. He fronts me on Facebook.  He takes a better photo than I do.

And Cushpig is now telling me that I am very stupid to write all this about him and he wishes that I would not be so embarrassing. He is waving his trotters at me and telling me to stop.

So I will. Right now.

The End.

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