The search for Dickie: Just the (bear) facts ma'am

I don’t want to tell my son that Dickie’s gone for good. But I’m worried that he probably is. So I come up with a plan. I’ll just buy another Dickie and if the real one isn’t found, I’ll replace him with a new one. Of course, I’ll have to try and make the new one look older, somehow.

This is not as easy as it sounds. And before I can figure out how to make a new bear old, I have to figure out how to get the new one. My son has had Dickie for at least four years now but nobody can remember what make he is, or where he came from.

My ex thinks he’s a Gund but she’s not sure. So I go on the Internet and start looking for Gund teddies. None of them look like Dickie. I try eBay. Scads of teddy bears for sale there. I lean in closer to my screen, examining their tiny faces, their stuffed bodies. Nothing even vaguely Dickie-like jumps out at me. Maybe he’s a Ganz, I wonder. Nope, doesn’t look like one of those either.

Maybe if I could find a store that specializes in teddy bears, someone there might be able to tell me what make he is. I could take a picture of Dickie with me. Just like on one of those TV shows where the cops walk in with a picture of the perp and stick it in the clerk’s face. “Have you seen this bear?” I’d ask.

OK, so maybe that’s not a great idea. I begin methodically combing the Net for manufacturers: Russ Berrie? Nope. Boyd’s? Nope. Hermann? Ty? Playful Plush? Nope. Nope. Nope. Nothing.

There are dozens of bear-makers, it seems, churning out multitudes of teddies. White bears, blue bears, pink bears, brown bears. Large and small; plush and mohair. Bears with strangely distended abdomens and bean-filled bums for sitting upright. Who knew there were so many nuances to teddy-hood?

I scan each picture, quickly eliminating those with the most obvious un-Dickie features like big feet, round heads and goofy smiles. Any deviation from a uniform tan colour is also grounds for disqualification.

Sometimes, the description under a particular teddy leaves me oddly charmed.

“Cuddliest-ever” one coos.

“Fully jointed,” boasts another, whatever that means.

Driven, I press on. Teddy faces stare back at me with bright eyes and shiny noses, some wearing happy, goofy grins and others the more traditional nose-and-mouth stitched together.

For hours, I ponder their inscrutable faces, wondering what cosmic secrets they might yield. Before I realize it, several hours have passed and I’m no closer to finding Dickie.

But I have learned this much: If you ever want to know what it’s like to go insane, try staring at teddy bear mug-shots for three hours. Talk about punch drunk.

After a while, all their faces begin to look strangely similar, so that they seem to melt together into one giant teddy face: The Buddha Teddy. I’m mesmerized.

Finally, the Buddha Teddy speaks to me, in a soft, plush voice.

“Close your eyes,” the Buddha Teddy says. I do.

“Think of Dickie,” the Buddha Teddy instructs me.

I clear my mind of all thoughts except Dickie. In fact, I become Dickie. I’m one big blob of Dickie-consciousness. And there I am: face down, in a dark, cold cardboard box. Being driven in a truck, maybe? Yes, I’m being driven somewhere in a truck.

OK, so either Dickie has been kidnapped and is being whisked across the state line, or he’s in a Fed-Ex truck, headed for the Orlando airport, with its immaculate carpets and gum-free cigar shops. He’s on his way back home. I just know it.

My neck is sore, my back aches from being hunched over a keyboard for three hours. But I’m at peace.