As I prepare our summer cabin for new renters, I find myself sifting through a collection of items that have accumulated over the years. My accountant, Chuck, chuckled when he learned we’d left it vacant. “What are you, royalty?” he teased. “You should rent it out!” So, with that in mind, I’m packing up beach towels, games, and furniture to transport back to my city apartment, where they now occupy an ever-growing pile in my living room.
Amidst all this sorting—deciding what to keep (dominoes and poker chips are in) and what to toss (games missing pieces go straight to recycling)—there’s one item that stands apart from the rest. Can I even call him an item? Snoopy, my trusty stuffed dog from third grade, has always held a special place in my heart. For years, he was the centerpiece of my bed, even adorned with Snoopy-themed sheets. As I transitioned into my teenage years, I traded play for boys and cars, yet Snoopy remained, like a decorative pillow, a silent witness to my growing up. He moved to the closet during college, but when I had my first child, he returned to watch over the nursery. Decades later, he’s back, now keeping watch over the top bunk at the cabin and back in my apartment.
In 1972, I desperately wanted a Snoopy. His name appeared on every birthday and Christmas list, while I immersed myself in the Peanuts comic strip daily. Unlike my dolls, Snoopy was undeniably cool—Joe Cool, to be precise. Fluffy and white with a black collar, he became a fashion icon in my childhood, outfitted with a tennis outfit and a denim jacket from the official Peanuts shop near Santa Rosa, where Charles Schulz himself could often be spotted.
With every passing year, Snoopy grew more worn. Accidents led to repairs, and the washing machine was no friend to his fragile seams. Now, he’s far from the pristine white he once was—pilled and grayish—but his smile remains unchanged, and he still radiates that unmistakable scent of comfort and love.
Snoopy has always been there to absorb my tears, offering a unique kind of love that few others could provide. By fourth grade, I had learned to draw him, capturing his essence with just a few lines. But nothing compared to the real Snoopy, whose soft curves cradled my face during moments of sorrow. He never judged, only comforted.
Last week, I brought Snoopy back to my sofa, where his familiar grin and crooked head reminded me of countless memories—both joyful and melancholic. Today, as I lay on the couch with a book, I found him nestled beside me. Our reunion was like two puzzle pieces fitting together, and I recalled all the times I cried into his fur.
To borrow a sentiment from The Velveteen Rabbit, Snoopy transcends the label of a mere toy. He’s a sanctuary of memories, a gentle embrace from my past, and a steadfast love that endures. As long as he’s here, I feel safe and comforted.
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In summary, my stuffed Snoopy is more than just a childhood relic—he is a cherished companion, a keeper of memories, and a reminder of unconditional love.
Keyphrase: Stuffed Snoopy as a childhood companion
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