Arlo: A Story Told from the First-Wombat Perspective

Content warning: martial arts violence involving squish toys and marshmallow candies, smoking, romanticization/glorification of poor eating. Note that, while raccoons can eat marshmallows, they should not. Nor should they smoke. Please do not feed marshmallows nor provide cigars to raccoons. Or anyone.

Arlo: A Story Told from the First-Wombat Perspective

“A prophet is without honor in his own country.”

“A wombat squishy plush toy is without honor in his own house.”

Those are more or less the same sayings, as far as I’m concerned. At home, I am expected to be an inanimate object, existing only as an emotional-support squishy plush toy or a cat bed. I’m not saying those are bad things to be; in fact, I love being those things to my person.

She is sometimes quite sad and squeezes me with real gusto, and it seems to help her. I know that some of the magic inside of me transfers to her when she does.

And, of course, I enjoy sharing the sunshine with my cat during the day—who doesn’t?

But I have gifts that they don’t know about. Beyond my usefulness as a comfort animal/sun pillow, I possess mastery of Arnis, the ancient martial art of the Philippines.

My name is Arlo. I am a giant wombat, although “giant” is relative. I’m 21 ¾ inches tall, and mostly flat. I should mention that I’m not your average giant wombat—I am, rather, a squishy plush replica of a giant wombat.

Although generally calm and gentle, I can feel threatened when strangers try to pet, feed, or otherwise handle me without my consent. To protect myself, I always carry Arnis sticks, one in each claw [Woosh! Woosh!]. I have acquired deadly mastery of my chosen weapons by watching YouTube videos late at night featuring a man with an impressive moustache and a muscle shirt.

Should my Arnis sticks ever fail, I can crush my enemies with my powerful butt cheeks.

No, I’m not being juvenile. This is factual; all wombats can.

Look it up if you don’t believe me.

My owner received me as a gift as a coping mechanism. Mostly, she snuggle-cuddles me throughout the day while I remain inanimate. This is my primary purpose in life.

But little does she know that I reawaken each night at the stroke of midnight and make my way to work.

I was able to get my job as a security guard because I satisfied all the mandatory criteria:

* I am at least 18 years old (well, the equivalent in wombat years is 6; I am 7)

* I am of good moral character

* I have completed the required 16-hour Basic Security Officer Training Course.

* I am willing to work 7 days a week, 365 days a year (because there are no animal labor laws, and even if or when there one day will be, they will not likely extend to squishy-plush toy versions of those animals)

My Arnis sticks do not warrant the additional training (4 more hours) and age requirements (7 ½ years, to me) required for armed security guards.

I work for King’s Guards (owned by Horatio King), the largest full-service national security guard company, offering both armed and unarmed security services, 24/7.

Mostly I’m quiet; it’s part of the job. Besides, when I speak too often, I get made fun of for my Australian accent.

My official title is Security Guard. However, my specific job is to serve as night-shift bodyguard to Mickey Knoodles, a social media raccoon star on Instagram. He currently has 502,135 followers; perhaps you’re one of them?

Mickey gained fame for his speed-eating skills, shattering the previous record set in 2017 by Matt Stonie, who ate 255 Peeps in 5 minutes for the National Harbor Peeps Eating Contest. Mickey ate 273. Sadly, COVID had shut down all the Peeps factories, which led to the closure of the National Harbor Peeps store, and thus the contest. But Mickey was undeterred. “I’m in this for the glory,” he said. And, in 2018, sat in front of the store by himself, a trough of Peeps on one side of him, a gallon-jug of Pepsi on the other, and one of his friends in front, with a Samsung Galaxy phone to film him. After setting the momentous record, Mickey appeared cool and nonchalant on camera, but he admitted to me that he thought he was going to explode.

Just Born Inc., the maker of Peeps, eventually recovered from COVID, and honored Mickey’s stunning accomplishment with a lifetime supply of Peeps.

Naturally, this sort of fame attracts…a lot of attention, not all of it wanted. Mickey lives a mostly peaceful life indoors. Sometimes he paints, sometimes he looks longingly out the window, thinking deep thoughts. He also likes to cook: Vienna sausages with ketchup for dipping, assorted Italian meats (count me out! I’m an herbivore), or any one of his line of Knoodles’ Noodles pastas. But his favorite thing to eat is sugar. He prefers prepared confections, but he’s not opposed to eating sugar directly out of the bag.

Last night, at the end of my shift, Mickey Knoodles said, “Hey kid, you do an all right job; you deserve a little something extra.” One of his assistants appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, with a crate of Peeps. “I made sure it was vegan-friendly,” Mickey said, winking and patting me on the shoulder. Mickey’s assistant, a burly raccoon named JoeBrutus, loaded the crate onto a wheelbarrow.

Mickey and I walked back to my house in friendly silence, JoeBrutus following behind. From time to time, Mickey would break the silence with a bit of song or philosophizing.

I wasn’t honestly sure what to do with the Peeps. I don’t personally enjoy them, and I’m not sure what my person would make of them. But Mickey was so earnest about the gift, I wasn’t sure how to say no. I didn’t want to be rude.

Fortunately, Mickey solved that for me. “Hey kid,” he said. “Let’s you and me enjoy the first pack of those Peeps together. It’s a nice night for it.” Without waiting for an answer, he directed JoeBrutus to move the wheelbarrow onto the backyard deck and open the crate.

There’s a saying, “luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity,” and it proved to be true that night.

JoeBrutus used a crowbar twice as long as his own body, but his thick raccoon arms wielded it easily. The crate opened with a crack. Mickey’s mouth, initially opened in anticipation, changed to one of astonishment. A drop of drool passed dully onto the grass, making an almost indiscernible splat in the sudden silence.

Because unbeknownst to us, in addition to the legions of Peeps, awaiting inside the crate, was a squishy ninja bunny Peep plush. I briefly considered his impressive discipline and leadership, to have maintained silence all that time—not only over himself, but over his unruly charges. He had managed to rip open his packaging, probably with that squishy ninja star of his, now sitting on his belt.

Without hesitation, he leapt from the crate. He made not a sound, all whispery danger and menace. Underneath him, the other Peeps, yellow chicks, emerged from their packaging, climbing and hopping on top of, and over, one another, chiming in rhythmic and unnerving unison, “Express your Peepsonality, cheep! Express your Peepsonality!” The swarm spilled out of the crate and moved toward us, the dark assassin in the lead.

JoeBrutus did not hesitate. He ran out the back gate and down the street, leaving the wheelbarrow and what remained of its contents behind. Mickey Knoodles watched him impassively.

I remembered my training. Never having set my Arnis sticks down, in a flash, the stick in my left claw crossed my body and rested at my right side, while simultaneously the one in my right claw raised up and over my right shoulder, poised to strike. I took an action stance, left foot back, right knee bent, turned to the side to offer the smallest possible target.

We locked eyes. The incessant droning, “Express your Peepsonality” continued, but my eyes narrowed, and I maintained focus on my enemy, drowning out all other considerations. Time stood still. It was just me and the ninja.

He recognized my skill and gave a nearly imperceptible nod of respect. Then, after the most intense four seconds of silence, he and his army charged forward.

My sticks flew with a life of their own. My first swing swatted the ninja in the side, sending him hurtling to my left. My follow up swing sent a pack of Peeps straight into Mickey’s open mouth. Despite my intense concentration on the fight, I could not help but admire Mickey’s swiftness. His smiling mouth and grand appetite moved as one. This was not danger for him. Merely dinner.

The ninja quickly recovered, springing up and crossing the yard in a single hop. He flung his shuriken, its six tiny blades whirling at me like a saw blade. I swung my sticks in a flurry of movement, creating a virtual wall of rattan. The plushy shuriken hit one of my sticks with a soft, muffled thunk and fell in the grass at my feet. The rabbit gave a little squeak of fury, and I smiled at the break in his composure.

Knowing that he could not retrieve his only weapon, my opponent was left with nothing but the threat of smothering me with his soft plushiness. Ninja rabbit Peeps are peculiarly designed without arms. In fact, he is mostly just menace. I thought of the respect he showed me at the beginning of the fight and gave him a slight nod to acknowledge his courage in the face of having almost no offensive weaponry. I looked meaningfully to the back fence and then back to him. He bowed, turned and sprinted to the back fence and hopped over.

His army could not follow him. There were none left to do so. Mickey had seen to that. There had been 360 Peeps in that crate. He had eaten them all in less than four minutes, their clatter (“Express your Peepsonality!”) slowly dying down in volume, until they were silent.

No one filmed it. But I was there. I know the truth.

Afterward, Mickey lit a cigar. “You showed me something there, kid.” Then, nothing more for a full minute. He stubbed out his cigar, brushing off loose ash before putting it back in his pocket. “I’m going to tell your agency that you deserve a raise. See you tomorrow.”

I slept well that night, a smile of satisfaction on my face as I realized my true purpose that night. I had protected my person—and my cat—from harm.

The next morning began as usual. I was in my appointed place in the house, where she had left me. The cat was curled up, asleep in my lap.

My person sounded restless, like she had had a bad dream. Had she looked out the window and seen?

After a time, she came downstairs and picked me up and squeezed for a long time. My squishy comfort flowed out of me.

Somehow, she must have known I’d saved her and was expressing her gratitude.