I always sit on top of the same books. Ever since I was brought into this house.
The magazines don't talk much. They're mostly pictures anyways, so they don't understand half the words I, or any of the other books for that matter, speak.
The children cook books are friendly. They always smell splendid and they never speak bad. Except when it comes to brussel sprouts and brocolli.
All the sports books are immature. No matter what the sport. Even ballet. "Wanna read me? Read between my lines!", is they're favorite line. I can't read, for one, and I would most definately never want to read a sport book.
Teenager books are boring. Blah. Blah. Blah. And they complain the most out of all the books combined. "My life sucks", "Why won't he love me?", "She died a week ago...".
The worst, are animal books. They always argue between each other on how animals should be raised and that dogs are better than cats and that planes and cars are evil twins. Insane.
I'm a book bunny.
A bunny who sits on books to keep them warm.
Or that's what the books said.
To humans, the girl I love is my owner. To animals, master. To me, my best friend. She bought me when she was only a child, 5 years of age.
"Mama!" She had called out, holding me in her hands. Her smile was bright. Her little pink braces shone off my black bead eyes. Inside, I was glowing. I had never been picked up before. I wish I had time to straighten my bow tie.
Her mother was just as beautiful as her daughter. My my my.
"Oh honey, another one? You bought one yesterday!" Her mother exclaimed. She looked over the top of her daughters head and smiled. I knew then that I was going to have a home.
Over the years, I have seen the good and the bad of my best friend. I've seen her happy, like when she first got a straight 'A's on a report card, or her first kiss. I've seen her down and depressed. That always made me sad too. If I could cry, I would, just to show her that I care and understand. And when she's angry, she's angry. I've been thrown across her room so many times I lost count.
Now that she's an adult, with a lovely family and a house of her own, I wonder. Does she still want me to keep her books warm? To sleep with her at night when there's a thunderstorm?
All I know is that, out of all the stuffed animals she had, she only kept me.
