This is Poley.

He's a little worse for wear these days. The fluffy decoration on his hat is long gone. The right eye was a victim of the washing machine, and though we found it and glued it back it fell out for good on a camping trip. The pin and the earring show my absolute lack of reluctance to make holes in the plush.

All of which is a testament to Poley being my best friend for the better part of five years.

I got him in my stocking on Christmas Eve when I was four. I'd had stuffed animals before Poley, of course, but something about him just clicked with me. Maybe it was the unusual (for its time) animal type, maybe it was the stark coloration, maybe it was the convenient pocket size, maybe it was the serious look on his face as compared to the insipid smiles on most of my other critters. Whatever it was, Poley followed me everywhere.

He also inspired an entire new class of toy. We all had Transformers, He-Man, Justice League heroes, Muscle wrestlers and MASK vehicles, but my brother and I were the only boys on the block who had Stuffed Animals. By the time I was ten, our collection had grown to 131 unique personalities (though they all spoke with the same sort of just-learned-English-after-moving-from-Marseille substituting-Ws-for-Rs voice). As a budding writer, most of my early stories and comics were about this gang of poly-fill friends.

The Stuffed Animals didn't win me any human friends, though. The early childhood playground is a harsh testing field, and any kid who shows originality is doomed to judgement. More than once I thought I'd found a kindred spirit, only to return days later with a new toy and have it mocked in order that my percieved pal not be ostracized himself.

Eventually I outgrew stuffed animals (to say nothing of the title-capped version), and cut down the collection. But Poley hung in there, serving as a totem for the important things. He was with me when I passed my driver's test. He moved into the dorms at UNM with me and even has a Lobos patch on his butt to prove it. He traveled to Japan and made it into a picture at Kyoto's Jingumae shrine (which would have been here if I still had a working scanner).

And every time I've needed a boost of imagination, a squeeze (or even a glance) helps get the juices flowing. That is his true calling, after all. Poley may not talk much anymore, but that doesn't mean he doesn't have a lot to say.