missing benedict

Des and I just set up our new study, which we made room for by relocating Benedict the seal. I am mighty pleased with our new arrangement---walls lined with beautiful mahogany shelves of academic journals, reference books and classic literature. Behind the shelves are secret compartments where we keep our stash of pornographic materials. Our subterfuge is contrived and ironic, though, because we have a large, lurid calendar of "Seals Every Month" on our study table. Only the wettest, most playful, most skilled ball-on-nose-balancers make the cut every year, and those limited-edition calendars make every walrus go "ouwr". However, I do keep my most incriminating materials featuring young seals (some mere pups) under lock and key because the authorities are very uptight about that kind of thing. Des and I don't want a repeat of last June.

Honestly, the authorities misunderstood my love for young pinnipeds. I know it's unusual for a magnificent, full-grown walrus to have such an affinity for seal pups, but like most abnormalities, this one stemmed from an unresolved childhood issue.

Daniel was my childhood seal-playmate. We went to different schools, stayed in different neighbourhoods, and really had no business knowing each other. But one day after school, I stopped by my "secret place", which was really a large abandoned igloo--okay, it wasn't abandoned, I relocated the eskimos---and saw someone else taking a nap in it. Someone who looked a little bit like a walrus pup, but smoother. Shinier. At first I was affronted and angry, but when I went closer I was immediately won over by the intruder's charm. Even asleep, the creature looked so peaceful. So benevolent. So moist. Then it stirred and saw me. With bright, curious eyes, it said "hello! I'm Daniel. Who are you?" His voice was not that of a walrus'. It was more pleasing and melodious. I was disoriented (in my own igloo!). "I'm a walrus. What are you?" I replied, somewhat gracelessly. "I'm a seal!" he barked happily with laughter. Then he tagged me with a wet flipper and cried, "come on, let's play!" So we played. We chased each other underwater, herded tuna and went diving for seashells. And after we exhausted ourselves, we'd huddle in our igloo and nap together before heading home.

This became an after-school routine for me. I grew very attached to my seal friend. Then one day, Daniel refused to take a nap with me. He explained uncomfortably, "my parents say that one day you'll eat me because you're a walrus and I'm a seal. They say that it's not right for a walrus and a seal to be friends. It's not natural." I sputtered, "but you want to play with me, don't you?" He looked at me with regret, anguish, and if I remember correctly a touch of newfound contempt in his eyes, and I knew the answer. Crestfallen, I pushed my ball all the way back home with my nose. I went back to the igloo the next day as usual, hoping that Daniel would change his mind, or that I imagined the whole thing, but he wasn't there. He never came back, and I never saw him for the rest of my childhood. I never got over the hurt and the rejection, but worst of all was the lack of closure. We never got the chance to discuss things reasonably, and I never got to explain that I really meant no harm when I sleep-nibbled him.

So naturally my heart leapt when I bumped into him a couple of months ago. He was a fully grown seal, with a wife and two-pups, and a pet otter. Poster family. He greeted me cheerfully, and asked me out for lunch. I really planned to be polite and non-chalant about, you know, the whole abandonment thing, but I couldn't resist blurting it out. "Daniel, why did you stop being friends with me so suddenly? We had such a wonderful, special friendship. So what if your folks thought it was unnatural? The only thing unnatural about our friendship was your cold departure."

To which, he replied, "What? Cold departure? That's not how I remember it. Sorry if I gave you that impression, old pal, but I guess I was just getting too busy with school. Sure sounds like you enjoyed yourself, though!" Then he smiled kindly and asked me about my hobbies. Well that rang the death knell for me. My heart turned cold and I loathed Daniel for his denial. His feigned innocence. That son-of-a-seal enjoyed himself just as much as I did. But even though I disgustedly severed all ties with Daniel after that, I realize that I've been looking for Daniel-the-seal-pup in every pinniped I meet.

This sometimes exasperates my best-walrus-friend Des, who's been my friend since birth. It was Des who comforted me after Daniel disappeared. "Forget about that stupid seal," young Des grunted, "anyway you've been neglecting me. You forgot all about our plan to relocate more eskimos and build a complex, you fat walrus." I sighed in agreement, "yes, seals are a waste of time. They're hos." Des reassured me, "if you ever get caught up with a seal again, rest assured I will be there to beat it out of you."

So when Benedict arrived, Des had to beat it out of me on the very first day. He looked so young! So fresh! So curious! So pup-like! I could not resist him. When our new seal friend came to, I chatted with him, gave him some tea and engaged him in some beach volleyball. In the room. Just as we were having great fun, Des thundered over, ploughed through the wall, sedated Benedict swiftly and dragged me out by the scruff of my neck. Then Des smacked me upside the head with a course flipper.

"What were you doing?" Des demanded.
"I was just---"
"Were you playing with the seal?"
"But Benedict---"
"Now you've named the seal?" Des shouted, turning purpler by the second.
"Come on, this isn't some childhood regression. I really do get along with Daniel!" I protested.
"What was that name?" Des bellowed, and slapped me twice. Any interjections from me were met with more swift slaps. I became extremely indignant and my whiskers curled with defensive rage---then I got stirred by my own distress and laughed along with Des. Then we bumped bellies and rolled Benedict back into his tank.

Damn, I miss that seal.