One Christmas, Tobby got a duck.
A big, soft, yellow duck with an orange beak and a very important feature: when you squeezed it, it quacked. Loudly. Proudly. Every single time.
Tobby was delighted. He carried his new friend around the whole house, past the Christmas tree, past the fireplace, under the table and back again. He tossed it, caught it, squeezed it. Quack. He looked at it in amazement. Squeezed it again. Quack. It was the best present in the world.
For about a week.
I don't know exactly what happened. I only know that one evening, the duck no longer had a nose. Well, a beak. The part where the quack lived.
I want to be very clear: this was not Tobby's fault. Readers who remember Lion, the king who lost his ears, may be raising an eyebrow, and I understand. But think about it from Tobby's side. You have a wonderful new friend. You love him. And every time you hug him, he shouts at you.
Something had to be done. Gently. Lovingly. And Tobby did it.
The duck stopped quacking. And nothing else changed.
That is the part I find most beautiful. Tobby didn't lose interest. He didn't move on to a newer, louder toy. The duck stayed his duck. Quieter now, a little scruffy around the face, but just as loved.
Months later, this is still how I find them: Tobby stretched out on the floor, his big head resting on the soft yellow back of his friend, both of them completely at peace. Two friends who don't need to say anything at all.
Maybe that is what a good friendship looks like. Someone who loves you a little less perfect than you were, and a lot quieter, and stays anyway.
Is there something a little imperfect in your home that you love exactly as it is?
With love, from HerWay (and Tobby)
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