Teddy


We couldn’t find my son’s Grandpa’s false teeth anywhere. I even went outside and looked in the dog house jus’ in case Nipper took them to chew on.

“Nope, not in there,” I called out as I stepped in the front door.

My son was having great fun, thinking it was some sort of a new winter-time game. He raced from room to room searching under beds, in closets, through the book shelves and drawers he could reach.

Suddenly, he came racing out of the back room, the one used for mostly storage, screaming, crying, nearly hyperventilating. He was so shaken that he was practically in consolable.

Heading to that room, I went in, looking to see what had left him so upset.

“Damn it, Dad,” I shouted, realizing we had become victims of another of his practical jokes, “Not funny, old man!”

His dentures were in the mouth of my son’s favorite teddy bear. And as I reached for the stuffed bear, it quickly moved out of range and growled.

Then I heard those porcelain teeth clack violently together.

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