It is with deep sorrow and a heavy heart that I tell you this: Mr. Snowman is no longer with us.
You may not know Mr. Snowman. I named him when he first entered our lives.
"Why ‘Mr.’ Snowman?" my darling wife inquired.
"Because he desires respect," I said warmly, patting her on the top of her head.
He was a stuffed cat toy standing 3" tall with a little green stocking cap and matching scarf. He had little stitched-on coal eyes and a little carrot nose. We would see him around the house always wearing a cheerful, albeit lonely smile.
Mr. Snowman was abandoned at a young age by our cat, Lisa (She and her brother Bart were named after the Simpsons cartoon kids. Bart left home at an early age mainly because Lisa bossed him around incessantly), but Mr. Snowman never was bitter; never gave up hope.
Then we adopted Spike. As soon as Spike saw him he fell in love. He carried Mr. Snowman around constantly.
Then something happened to the relationship. We aren’t sure why. Spike first gnawed off Mr. Snowman’s carrot nose. I thought it must be just nerves on Spike’s part, being new to our household and family. Mr. Snowman still smiled. He must have known Spike did not mean to hurt him.
A few days later, Spike came to me carrying a little green stocking cap.
"Spike," I said, "Mr. Snowman’s head will be ever so cold without his little green cap. Bring it back to him immediately!" But Spike did not. He merely lay down and shredded the cap.
This is not a good sign, I thought. Maybe the two needed to be separated until we could get counseling for Spike. This behavior was definitely not healthy for their relationship.
I looked all over the house for Mr. S, as I grew fond of calling him and grew tired of typing. When I finally found him, he was lying face down without his scarf. I gently turned him over and gasped, "Mr. S! what happened to your face?!" It was true. He no longer had that perennial smile. And his once-twinkling coal eyes were gone! Before I could gather him up in my trembling hands, Spike came out of nowhere and snatched him up. He ran into the bedroom and hid under the bed.
Just then the phone rang. I hastily decided to answer it. It might be Ed McMahan calling for Publisher’s Clearing House. I knew I must not lose any chance of getting more money. I could see a dog psychiatrist was our only hope.
Alas, it was just some stupid guy asking if Dave was there. By the time I got back to the bedroom, it was too late for Mr. S. Spike had decapitated him! I recoiled in horror. There lay the head with a ragged neck. All around were snowman guts. Spike had disemboweled him!
I gathered up all the remains and put them in a shoe box lined with tissue and Kleenex. If I couldn’t save him, the least I could do was to give him a descent burial. I closed the lid. I could think of nothing to say. Besides there was no one to hear my words. Diane had fainted as the sight of so much gore. I stood there silent. A single tear fell from my eye and landed on the coffin.
I walked to the trash shoot and slowly, ceremoniously opened it.
"To the dump, I commend your remains. May you find the peace you so futilely sought in life."
Donations may be made in Mr. S’s name to the Save the Crystallized Water People of America.