When I was six my dad brought me home a gift. I already had a ton of toys literally
covering every inch of my bedroom, but this one was very different. It wasn’t a spaceship, or a doll, or a gun, or a tea set. It didn’t walk or talk or flash any lights, it didn’t even need batteries. It was soft and fluffy and it just stood there. It was a dream come true.

His name was Peter and he looked like any of the other popular Puffin Partners that were immensely popular during that time. He was black and white with a short red and yellow bill. Much like a colourful penguin. The tag on his back said “Handcrafted especially for you – by The Old Toyman.” That was how he looked on the surface – or how he appeared to everyone
else. Inside the confines of my room, and my mind and my heart, he was immediately my best
friend, my confidant, my partner to share my wildest dreams.

But I never knew the extent of his abilities until that fateful day.

The morning began like most others. I was at the kitchen table scarfing down my Frosted Flakes when they entered the room, just to change venues. My parents were having another of their endless screaming matches. They moved from the bedroom to the kitchen because it hadn’t been a battleground since last night. A fresh appearance to an old argument.

That day the subject was cookies. From what I understood, Dad had eaten some cookies Mom had baked for her Rotary Bake Sale. I mean, it had gotten to a point where the subject matter was irrelevant. Cookies, hair colour, driving the car, which picnic table to eat at – they fought for the sake of fighting.

That morning they had long since stopped listening to each other and were just yelling. At 125 decibels I left for the bedroom. There I picked up Peter Puffin.

“I wish they’d find a way to stop fighting and be friends.” He looked back at me and I knew he agreed.