When I was twelve or thirteen, I was still really immature for my age. I carried a little plastic puppy around with me, in my pocket, everywhere I went. It was a really tiny, pretty thing. It was named Patch. I petted it, loved it, and cared for it. It had a little puppy basket on the table next to my bed, where I tucked it in to sleep every night with its hand-sewn teeny bead-embroidered blanket and delicate cotton-wool bedding, stuffed with slightly satiny, sometimes-color-changing-in-certain-lights pillows.
Seriously.
One day I was with my mother at this garden center and I needed to go bad. There was only one female toilet. I went in and it was filled with disgusting poo, so I tried to flush it away. The flush did not work. But oh, I needed to go. And I did so. And as I was leaving, I pulled my sunglasses out of my shirt pocket and Patch --
Patch fell into the toilet.
I was in complete shock.
I stared at the toilet for around two minutes.
In the end, of course, I did decide to save him.
Rolled up sleeves... couldn't see him... had to search around a bit... (oh God... oh my God... yuck...) ... he was towards the back.
I pulled him out.
Luckily, this being the only toilet at this small store, it had the basin and soap dispenser right there in the cubicle.
There was no soap left.
Shit.
In the end I believe I water-washed my hand, and Patch, for maybe ten minutes, and then a million times more when we got home.
This horrific experience did not pull Patch and I closer together. Instead, I kinda stopped taking Patch places anymore. It makes me sad, but I never could look at him the same way again.
I think he may have ended up at a boot-sale. I wonder about the people who picked him up at the sale, innocently unknowing of his past...