Joey was never a comforting playmate, more a means of escape.

My earliest memories of his part in my life are as a stabilising walking aide as I zoomed around behind him. He used to look quite huge and grand with a wonderful gold edged saddle and a fetching red harness and ‘Joey’ never really sounded majestic enough for a creature of such proportions.

Things at home could get quite tricky as my mother was alcoholic and my father mostly absent so the memories I have of scooting along either on Joey’s back or behind him and propelling him forward and away from the arguments are mostly of liberation.

Joey started to become a familiar but neglected old friend as I got a bit older then began to take on something of a promise of becoming a companion to my future offspring.
Sadly three IVF attempts and one desperate stab at surrogacy later, he has come to embody the quiet tragedy of my infertility.

My nieces and nephews all enjoyed playing with him, but they are now grown up and poor Joey has signs of moth damage.
Our cats have used him as a scratching post so he now signifies sadness and loss to the extent that make it almost unbearable to look at him.


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