DEATH OF A PILLOW

I walked in the door today, carrying my groceries and the dogs' bag of food. The boys were happy to see their food me, leaping in the air and play-bowing and sniffing at my heels. I'd only been gone for about fifteen minutes, but, as dogs are extremely adept at doing, they acted as though I'd been gone a fortnight. I opened the food bag and poured it into their bowls and then I stood back and watched as they snouted their way through the dry cereal-like Pedigree. I noticed a slight puddle-stain on the threadbare carpet and so I Fantastick'd it and ground some paper towel into it and then called it good. My computer called to me from its den and so, bidding a fair adieu to the boys, I lumbered off to the den. Only to stop short. Only to stop short, I say!

From my periphreal, I caught sight of an image that will haunt me till my dying day. In the front room, next to the insanely-comfortable leather armchair, a body lay sprawled out, its innards ripped from its body, said innards covering its torso, its face, dotting the surrounding brown carpet with Violence. Oh. My God, say it isn't so. It was. 'Twas. It was Padraig Pillow, rendered inanimate forever by the sharp teeth of the boys Oliver.

And I hadn't even seen it coming! I blamed (and still blame) myself. The boys Oliver had had their his way with Padraig a couple of weeks before and I guess I had assumed that if I kept Padraig off the floor, he'd be safe from the Jaws of Death. My complancency got him killed. Torn to pieces, actually. And it's taking all I have not to sob uncontrollably right now.

He lies there, still. Well, now, let me be perfectly accurate. His body lies there still. His soul, his cognizance--they're long gone; they've gone and exited Stage Left. Little Padraig is up in pillow heaven, now, doing what all the cherubic pillows do: lie around, maintain their softness, occasionally help a brother sleep. But, anyway, he lies there, still. I just haven't had the courage to go scoop him up and encase him in his plastic coffin. (Plus, I have to write about this; I have to get my feelings out on "paper," as it were.) I thought it would be nice to honour Padraig's memory and write a kind of impromptu obituary on the Internet and send it out to the Binary Showplace, let all the 1s and 0s pay their respects:

Little Padraig Pillow was born in Ireland. He was raised by loving parents, Phillip the Bodypillow and Patricia the Headrest. Little Padraig was a popular pillow, held in high esteem by his classmates at the Primary School of Zs and, later, at Eyes-On-Sheep High School. He excelled at his studies, having been born into an extremely soft and malleable body, but he found his joy, his calling, his second year at the high school when he tried out for wrestling and made the team. He took to wrestling like it were an innate extension of his being, winning match after match after match with seemingly little effort. His coaches were pleased, to say the least. They were particularly impressed with his finishing move, The Smotherer, in which Padraig would bodily spring across the ring--usually a bed--and position himself across his competitor's face, pressing down hard, thus compromising the oxygen intake of the other, rendering him still, catatonic almost. Though many have tried the move, none have been able to execute The Smotherer with the flair with which Padraig had so easily bested his opponents. Padraig the Pillow was a pioneer in the sport of pillow wrestling and, as such, his name has been immortalized.

After high school, Padraig was possessed with a strong case of wanderlust and so he bid farewell to his tearful parents and left the Green Isles for the first and what would turn out to be the last time. Jammed into a cardboard box with like-minded pillows, Padraig had had the gnawing suspiscion that he might have acted rather hastily, what with leaving his secure and comfortable island home to try his luck in the New World but, once the box was opened and he was greeted with the sight of the Statue of Liberty and all the hustle and bustle of the New York port, he grinned to himself and knew that he had made the right choice.

Padraig had found himself a second home in New York city and he sustained himself with being the third pillow--oftentimes being used in a sexual nature--and he lived high off the hog for a couple of years. He and his parents wrote each other and talked often on the telephone, but, still, after two years of living in The City, Padraig yearned for a more laidback life. And so he decided to clean himself up and encase himself in plastic and pricetag himself to the point to which he would be deemed desirable to good sturdy salt-of-the-earth midwesterners. And so he found himself in the mitten state, in the metropolitan Detroit area and he found himself in K-Mart and he found himself being picked off the shelf by a lovely buxom woman and he found himself another home. At this new home, he quickly made friends with the two satin-covered leopard print pillows (Kogoi and Kenashwa) and the burnt-sienna body pillow (Phillipe-Tyrone). Life was good and he found himself clothed in a Halloween-inspired covering and he and Kogoi, Kenashwa and Phillipe-Tyrone often found themselves in deep philosophical conversations which often delved into the metaphysical, the supernatural, the occult.

Life changed for Padraig, though, when the buxom beauty brought another pillow (her favorite) into the mix. Red and satiny-soft, Padraig had no chance of competing for the woman's affection and so he took his demotion to being the guest pillow with a stocism that would have made his parents proud. He spent more and more of his time in the front room, or haphazardly-placed on the armchair and he found himself crying himself to sleep at nights, missing the companionships and the intellectual conversations that he'd once had with Kogoi and Phillipe-Tyrone and Kenashwa. And he found himself growing more fearful, daily, of the hounds with whom he often shared the room. The big one was okay, he figured, but the smaller one was untrustworthy, the smaller one often eyed him with golden eyes of wanton lust. And that was scary.

So, I have no idea what happened to Padraig the Pillow. Was it his emotional state that caused him to leap to his certain death upon the front room floor? Or was it Oliver's "wanton lust" that signed Padraig's death certificate? I'll never know. But would you, could you, join me in a moment of silence for a pillow whose life was cut short far too early? And, also, say a quick prayer for all that he left behind.

Thank you and God bless.

PS--Though pillows were killed, no dogs were harmed during the making of this post.