Love in dirty, fluffy packages

This is Snuffy.

 

Snuffy is approximately 100 years old, give or take a few decades. He is Nick's lovey from childhood.

Today Snuffy lives with us -- thanks to the steady shipments of dusty cardboard boxes that flowed from the basement of Nick's dad's house directly into our 500-square-foot newlywed nest shortly after our marriage a decade ago.

Recently, Snuffy mysteriously emerged from the basement and into our lives again.

Specifically, Snuffy keeps landing on my bed, under my bed and back up on my bed over and over again.

I don't care for Snuffy. He's old. He's decrepit. He's creepy. I feel he's unsafe and unsavory. And it's time we let him go.

A few weeks ago, I noticed Snuffy had a slit throat, which oozed blobs of blood-red stuffing. He also was missing an eye and his paws were wearing thin.

What's worse is that around the same time, I noticed my children started falling in love with him.

You see, they, too, have loveys -- a dog called Spotty and a bunny blanket named BB, respectively -- so they feel it's important that we keep Papa's lovey around. Afterall, they plan to keep their loveys forever and ever, through college and marriage and world travels and all.

Why shouldn't Papa hang onto his? Shouldn't Snuffy have a place on Papa's bed just like all loveys throughout the history of time?

But Papa shares a bed with Mama and Snuffy creeps Mama out.

Then May 11th rolled around and we were preparing the house for Papa's birthday celebration.

 

I had sent the children to the basement for some decorations and they emerged with Snuffy, whom I had secretly banished to his dark, dusky home for the umpteenth time this month.

Calvin said: "Shouldn't Snuffy join the party? Papa would like it."

Sister heartily agreed and I had nothing to say to this crowd of fluffy-animal-dependent snugglers that wouldn't sound cold and ... anti-lovey.

"OK," I sighed. "Let's fix him up, though. He's in no shape for a party."

I brandished the sewing box and the button jar and did my best to transform this disheveled plush toy into something a little more palatable. I closed his gaping neck wound, sewed a new eye in place and wrapped a lemon-colored bandana around him.

And when Papa came home, there, at the party table, next to a brand new golf bag and a hand-written storybook, sat an old friend and a silent plea for forgiveness from a wife and mother who may just be a little jealous that her own "blankie" never arrived on her newlywed doorstep in a musty old cardboard box.

 

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P.S. The birthday boy declared this was his best yet.

 

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P.P.S. Mom -- I hold no grudge. I know the fate of my blankie and I'm OK with it. May it rest in peace.