Baby Pet Polar Bear: It's happening

On his way to my house

When you're a highly suggestible and delusional person like myself, strange notions often occur to you. Years ago when I was watching television I saw a commercial starring Dr. Carter (a.k.a. Noah Wyle) urging me to send money to the World Wildlife Federation in order to save the polar bears. The footage included horrible shots of polar bears adrift on ice caps floating away towards death. After my hysterical crying jag and a shot of tequila, I immediately contacted the WWF and made a donation to save polar bears. This is where my rapid decent into fantasy land began. I insisted to my husband that we consider getting a baby pet polar bear and the conversation went something like this:

Me: Honey? I think we should get a baby pet polar bear.

Jared: Absolutely impossible.

Me: Presentation of evidence to the contrary, vis-à-vis youtube videos of Knut.

Jared: Terrible idea. Where would it live?

Me: We'll change our closet to a walk-in fridge and I'll sell all my clothes to make room and to pay for his fish.

Jared: No. He'll get big. He will start out cuddly but then he'll claw your eyes out.

Me: Why do you have to stomp on my dreams?

End scene. Repeat conversation on a bi-weekly basis for roughly 4 years.

My pleading for a baby pet polar bear – and weekly emailing of photos to Jared – has continued for years, despite the fact that I live in a 680 sq. foot apartment, hate to handle raw fish, and have since acquired a dog. Last year I gave a little extra money to the WWF and in addition to the return address labels they always sent me, I received a small plush polar bear, who does nothing to quench my desire for a live baby pet polar bear, and instead mocks me with his cotton body and lifeless plastic eyes from a perch on my bookshelf.

Please help save the polar bears. And then give one to me.