Until 1995, this furry object was the entire extent of my experience with the Scottish culture. His name is Mac and he has never looked different from what you see now. That is not a bad hair day – that is a day.
Oh, I admit that there were Scots and colonial Scots and clan-creatures in plenty in Alberta – Calgary was a nest of Highlanders and kilts and bonspeils and Burns Nights. I knew they were there, and they were like the Sarcee and Stony Indians – colourful but peripheral to real life. The occasional bagpipe or arrow attack in the spring when hormone levels were up, and then peace for the rest of the year.
Of course, I did succumb to the temptation to hoots and toots it with the re-enactment Scots at Waterloo in 1995 and carried on the charade for a year or so afterwards, but eventually it fell away from me and I was back in the reality zone.
Mac has always been a part of the reality, though, as he formed one of the triumvirate of stuffed animals that cheered my childhood. He never had a bathrobe or pyjamas, as did the other two, and I put it down to my late mother not knowing how to sew garments for dogs. Or maybe she had an aversion to making a dog look human. I think the closest Mac ever got to a garment was a plaid ribbon.
He is shedding now, and any box he is stored in gets a fine dust of fibres eventually. One day he will be bald, but at present he is doing better than I am.
Ah, but he still has his days out – he will represent me on Facebook for a week or so before handing off to another host. Any distressing posts in that time will be his alone – I’m innocent…