I’ve never felt human. I don’t act right, and I’m pretty sure I don’t think right. Most of the time I feel like an observer, poorly camouflaged in an attempt to get closer to my subjects. Over time the disguise has improved as I’ve learned that humans find babies to be adorable and believe Tom Hanks can act. Yet there always seems to be more that separates me from the species.
My mom assures me that whatever his many faults my father is human, but she’s in denial. Anyway, parentage is beside the point. This is something else, like I’m wearing an ill-fitting Edgar suit.
Last week a group of us were talking at work. Our meeting had ended, and we were engaged in the requisite banter that precedes everyone going back to work. The topic of my imposing presence came up, as it sometimes does, and I was referred to as a bear. That happens, and although I’ve never quite understood it I have come to expect it.
Then a manager said I was more like a feral panda: cute, sort of cuddly, and vicious.
I’m not quite convinced, but I did ask for a tire to play with.