Just a Ball (But Also, Not)

There are a few things Bear takes seriously:

His naps.

His couch real estate.

And that green ball.

He's had it for years—faded, chewed up, a little crusty around the edges.

But it’s his.

His comfort object. His trophy. His proof that he still runs this house.

And when one of his little brothers dares to pick it up?

That’s when it happens.

The slow head turn.

The wide eyes.

The huffing.

Like he just walked in on someone sleeping in his spot and drinking out of his water bowl. With their paws.

It’s that level of betrayal.

He gets up like a man who’s had enough.

And then—the stare.

He doesn’t bark.

Doesn’t growl.

Just stands there, breathing loud enough to rattle the ceiling fan, radiating pure, righteous indignation.

And if Bear could talk?

Here’s exactly what he’d say—with the dry, Dude-like wisdom of a dog who’s seen some things:

“Okay.

So that’s where we’re at now?

I step away for two minutes—two minutes—and suddenly one of the kids is out here parading around with my ball like he discovered it under a cabbage leaf?

 And not just any ball.

The green one. The O.G. The legend.

The one I’ve slobbered on so consistently it should have its own Netflix special.

We’re not talkin’ some off-the-shelf squeaky toy.

We’re talkin’ years of history. Sentiment. Funk.

 And now Harvey’s tossing it like he’s king of the backyard.

Lewis is orbiting like a mosquito with boundary issues.

And me? I’m standing here, breathin’ like a busted accordion, wondering how I lost custody of my favorite thing.

And what are you doin’, Dad?

Just sittin’ there? Enjoyin’ the show like it’s a nature documentary?

Let me guess—you’re waitin’ to see how it plays out. Real helpful.

 Look, I’m not tryin’ to overreact here…

But I am about to sigh louder than most people can legally handle.

‘Cause yeah—it’s just a ball.

But also?

It’s not.

I mean…

That’s just, like, your opinion, man.

 This is principle.

It’s dignity.

It’s the one dang thing I’ve got left that still squeaks when I bite it.

 So yeah…

Let’s go ahead and fix this.

Let’s return the ball to its rightful slobber-covered home.

And maybe toss in a little respect next time, yeah?”

Once the ball is back in his mouth, everything resets.

Bear becomes a parade.

He struts. Chest out. Tail high.

He walks past each of his little twerp brothers—slowly—so they know:

This? This is what seniority looks like.

Then he flops on the couch, ball still in his mouth, panting like a wheezy kazoo, fully restored to his rightful place in the universe.

And the truth is?

Bear’s a little petty.

A little dramatic.

A little too loud with his feelings.

And that’s okay.

He’s not trying to be liked.

He’s not trying to be perfect.

He’s just being Bear—loyal, particular, hilarious, and completely himself.

Maybe that’s the point.

You don’t have to explain what brings you joy.

You don’t have to shrink so someone else feels bigger.

You don’t have to give up the thing that makes you you—just to keep the peace.

You get to claim your space.

You get to protect your green ball.

You get to breathe a little louder if that’s what it takes to be heard.

Be you.

Be unapologetically you.

And if they don’t get it?

Just do what Bear does.

Hold your head high, take your lap, and let the world watch you parade.