Purple

I debated on whether or not to add this. But I suppose it is important, in its own little way. Last night the Socialist found out one of my deepest, darkest secrets. I have to admit, he took it pretty well. He wasn’t exactly what you’d call “understanding”. But he was pretty good about it none-the-less. Sometimes that’s all you can ask for.

We have to start back at the beginning for this one. Back in the summer of ’95 I did a externship in upstate New York at a dairy farm/research facility. It was, in many ways the best summer of my life. It was also the summer I broke my first bone. Less than a week after I arrived, I fell while helping stack bales of hay in the barn and cracked my elbow. It put me out of commission for a good six weeks. My arm hurt, I was homesick, and I was just plain miserable. In my pathos I reached out for a friend. He stayed with me every night, cushioned my broken elbow so I could sleep, and listened to my constant bitching without ever saying a word of reproach. His name was Purple, and he was a stegosaurus.

Do NOT call him “Barney”. Purple pre-dates that insipid piece of toddler pabulum by a good decade, and is a vegetarian. Barney is a Tyrannosaurus, and should have been eating those little Twinkies instead of dancing with them, so far as I’m concerned.

Purple was a sort of last minute item packed for my externship. I needed something soft to cushion a few fragiles I took with me, and he was commandeered into the job. As it tuned out, I seldom used the equipment he helped to arrive safely to its destination, but I used Purple as a pillow every night I was there. He and I formed a bond that lasts to this very day.

Purple was with me during the month I spent in the hospital for my heart. Purple traveled with me through all my rotations at vet school. Purple bolstered my leg when I was kicked in the quadriceps and had to have surgery. Purple spent the week with me when I was in the hospital last month. Purple has listened to me cry myself to sleep and has cheered me on to victory on rough days. Everybody should have a friend like Purple, and I consider myself lucky that he and I made each other’s acquaintance so many years ago.

Purple is not an inanimate object. It doesn’t matter if his eye buttons have started to lose their paint, or that his little stegosaurus fins don’t stand upright anymore, or that the thread of his smile has become frayed in the center. Purple knows me like no one else does.

The Socialist made the mistake last night of suggesting that Purple was looking a little ragged. He wants to repaint the eyes in, even though we can’t match the original colors. I ask you, would you just stick new eyeballs in somebody’s eye sockets because they were going a little nearsighted? He wants to stiffen up the fins again so they stand upright. That’s like saying he’s getting old and needs a face lift. You don’t expect people to get facelifts because their years of experience are reflected in their faces. You don’t expect stegosauruses to get them either.

The more we discussed “fixing up” Purple, the more the Socialist began to realize that I was, in his words, anthropomorphizing the damned thing. That doesn’t exactly make sense to me. How do you “anthropomorphize” one of your best friends? The Socialist still doesn’t understand, but in the end he relented.

You don’t stay young unless you hold onto the things of value from childhood.

Addendum: A picture of Purple. See! He doesn’t look that bad.