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On The Reality Of Stuffed Animals

photo-1 copyMy daughter left her oldest friend, a 9-year-old pink bunny (named Bunny), in a San Diego hotel room last Friday night. During the day, she masks her pain behind her bubbly personality. At night, she’s inconsolable.

What if Bunny is scared? she wonders. What if Bunny, though she no doubt misses you, is having a madcap series of amazing San Diego adventures? I challenge.

The drunken poet once asked For what is despair but stasis in the presence of loss? 

Though of course Bunny will never be replaced, I asked my daughter if having someone to cuddle, my Snoopy for instance, might help. She said it would.

My grandma gave me Snoopy when I was 9-years-old, a 32-year-old beagle who has held up rather well apart from a badly frayed nose and a head that leans on a tired re-stitched neck. He’s my oldest friend this side of Dan Parker.

But it’s for my daughter. Her heart is broken. And Snoopy, after all is just a stuffed animal, not real, you know? Just an inanimate collection of fabrics that, together, flailed and struggled and screamed no, no, no as she carried him across the parking lot, hopped in the car, and took him home.

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