Teddy bears are not known for writing intriguing stories about their lives, but I am going to change that. Stuffed animals live a rough and tumble life. We are thrown around by sticky little hands and tossed out of speeding cars when our owners are having tantrums. I have been hurled to the ground more times than I can count.

I am a small red and purple teddy bear and I was made in China in 2005. I made my way to the United States on a large cargo plane. The plane was loaded down with over six thousand stuffed bears in assorted sizes and colors. It was similar to being in a toddler’s wildest fantasy. The plane landed on a frigid, December day at Logan Airport in Boston, Massachusetts and it was the start of a wonderful and love-filled existence for me.
I was shipped to Wal-Mart on an enormous eighteen-wheeler semi-truck. The men driving the truck got out when we had reached our destination, they were tall and very muscular. They helped the store’s employees unload all two hundred teddy bears and then left to deliver more items to other far away places.

I was placed on a shelf with fifty other bears in the toy section. It was a barrage of colors, shapes, and high-pitched noises. I was very excited because I had never been out of my box before. All of a sudden, a hurricane of miss-matched children and their business suit clad mothers and fathers invaded the aisle. The children started grabbing at all of the stuffed animals and Barbies and plastic toy cars. Their parents trudged in behind them; carrying purses and wallets stuffed to the bursting point with cash and over-used credit cards.

A little girl, with chubby hands that were covered in precious little costume rings, snatched me from my shelf with a vice-like grip. She held me close as she ran to her mother.

“Mommy, look at the wittle teddy bear, he’s so cute Mommy, can I please, please, pretty please get him?” She had a high little voice and it was full of pleading.

“Sure you can, Samantha.” Samantha’s grip lessened slightly, but she was still holding on to me for dear life, like she was scared getting me was too good to be true. Samantha, her mother, and I all walked to the checkout counter. The teenage girl at the counter took me gently from Samantha and scanned my price tag with a little hand-held device. I was only $4.99. I was then placed into a thin plastic bag, only to be rescued by Samantha, or as I call her Sami, a moment later.