What's Up With the Beavers?

I dread writing this, but so many people have asked me this question in the past week alone that I feel that I should have some sort of stock response prepared. Thus, whenever someone asks, I can just be all “That information is on my website. Begone!” And I will wave my hand in a dismissive manner. I imagine it will save me a lot of time while making me seem even more surly than usual. Two birds – One stone.

(For those of you who don’t know what I’m rambling about: I own a ton of beavers and beaver-related paraphernalia. Stuffed animal beavers, beaver-sporting clothes, ceramic beavers, platinum beavers…etc. They’re all over my room, and I reference them everywhere else. See that url up there? Yeah. So…)

Quit stalling and get to the question. What’s up with the beavers?

It all started when I was but a wee lad in high school, so idealistic and much more of a nerd than I am today. (Quiet you, I make the jokes around here.). I was bored in band practice one day (see? High school band? Very nerdy. More so than…college band…ne’ermind, just leave me be) and was randomly illustrating my music with little cartoons acting out the titles. One such cartoon was of a goofy boy beaver giving a girl beaver a valentine. Who knows why?

It was badly illustrated (I am a horrible artist. I have professional confirmation of that fact. But that’s really a story for another time) but it was vaguely cute, in a “look, some unskilled four-year-old drew a picture” sort of way, and my clarinet partner-in-crime said I should draw more of them for all the music. (Yeah, I played the clarinet in high school too. Back off, we’ve already gone over the nerd part. Y’all just don’t understand my pain.)

Thus, my love/hate relationship with the beaver began. All through high school I drew a series of beavers in random jobs, wacky scenarios and the like. My friends accepted the growing horror with the good humor that inherently comes with being able to tolerate me. Life was good, if strange. Then, my mom bought me a stuffed beaver for my birthday, and that was the beginning of my descent into madness.

Because he was just so cute. I had to have more. And then I did have more. And they were still cute. Life was even better. But slowly, the beavers started taking over. They were everywhere. In the car. On my bed, covering my shelves. On my notes, in my music. And soon other people knew and started supporting my weird addiction. Because finding a beaver related object is something of a minor rarity, when someone I knew saw one they’d pick it up for me. Suddenly, there’s yet another brand new testament to the strangeness that is me.

Soon, people began to see it as less cute and more creepy. “You’re not from Canada, are you?” they’d ask, all suspiciously. And the coincidental double entendre that could be derived out of the moniker “beaverguy” started to heavily affect my life. (It’s never a good idea to send your college applications out with your email address as beaverguy21@hotmail.com. It’s just asking for embarrassing questions.)

And so forth, for the last six years or so of my life. As I sit here right now, I have 3 beavers on my desk, have an IM name that suspiciously sounds like I have a preference for gnawing on wood, and am wearing a fabulous shirt with a beaver who says “Dam,” in an ever-so-clever pun.

Often times I wonder how it all got so out of hand, but I still think they’re very cute. And as it is, beavers can be seen as a sort of metaphor for living a good life: Always be industrious, never let obstacles stand in your way, eat a lot of fiber, if life gives you trees - make dams, etc.

So to recap: I collect beavers. They control my life and bring up strange questions, but I do it anyway because old habits die hard and I’m drawn to them.

….

Seriously, this whole column-thing is really making me out to be a complete wacko. Eh, embrace the madness, I always say.