by Janetta Messmer

“When I told my family about Randy the bear and Hazel the squirrel, they just stared at me.” Cindy glanced over at her therapist. “Go on.” Dr. Arnold feverishly wrote on his clipboard. “My sister, in her usual sarcastic tone, asked me if I’d shared this information with anyone else. I assured her I hadn’t told another soul that Bob and I talk through stuffed animals.” “What. . .you and your. . . husband communicate with. . .?” The doctor’s laughter stopped any further questions. “Excuse me, Dr. Arnold?” “Sorry.” The therapist said as he regained his composure. “Okay, Cindy. . .let’s try this again. So, you talk to stuff—” “Yes, but let me explain,” she interrupted him. “Bob and I don’t talk to them, we talk through our cute little stuffed animals. We’re aware the bear and squirrel aren’t going to answer—that is unless we do the talking through them.” Dr. Arnold’s chair squeaked as he leaned back. “I’ve heard of this phenomenon. I believe it’s most prevalent in patients who lack intimacy in their relationship.” He cleared his throat. “I’ve read this form of communication helps couples work through issues in their marriage. “The remarkable findings are in the 1998 book titled, Stuffed but Communicative (Communicating through Your Teddy Bear and Other Stuffed Entities). Cindy, do you think Randy and Hazel have helped you and Bob with your. . .intimacy?” Cindy knew at that moment if she divulged any more details the doctor would surely sign the papers to commit them both for a very long time. “Well, does talking throu—” “Talking through them. . .well, sir. . . it is helpful.” “How so?” Dr. Arnold’s posed his pen to write more mumbo jumbo on her chart. Instead of answering the doctor’s question, Cindy started to giggle. She picked up her Coach bag and reached inside and grabbed Randy and Hazel, sitting them down on her therapist’s desk. “Dr. Arnold, this is one of those times when what I want to say would sound better delivered in Randy’s deep, gruff voice.” She picked up the little bear and held him. “Don’t you agree, sir?” Cindy asked in Randy’s baritone voice. Dr. Arnold gasped. His eyes appeared the size of half dollars when he jumped up from his chair. The clipboard lying on his lap dropped with a clatter to the tile floor. The man charged out of his own office and Cindy heard loud screams as he ran down the long hallway. “Darn it, kids, he didn’t let me finish.” Cindy sat the little bear back down on the desk. “I so much wanted to tell him about the time your dad, wearing only his BVD’s, squelched a heated argument talking in your deep voice, Randy? Or Hazel, remember when. . .” Cindy smiled as she put the kids back in her bag, knowing she’d sent another shrink over the edge. “Kids, ya did good.”