As I gear up to tidy up our summer cabin before the new renters arrive, I can’t help but chuckle at my accountant’s reaction when he realized it had been sitting empty. “Are you running a museum?” he joked. “Just rent it out!” So, here I am, sorting through a mountain of beach towels, sand toys, guest room bunk beds, and an array of games and puzzles that need to make their way back to my apartment in the city.
Of course, when I say “go,” I mean they’re all piling up in my living room, creating a delightful little mess. Slowly, I’m deciding what to keep—dominoes, poker chips, and mancala? Absolutely! Random games missing pieces? Straight to the recycling bin. Worn-out towels and sheets? Off to the pet shelter they go. And those extra copies of my favorite books? Hello, library donation bin!
But there’s one item that has taken center stage in this decluttering adventure: my beloved stuffed Snoopy. This little guy has been by my side since the third grade, ruling my bed (draped in Snoopy bedsheets, no less) for years. He was my trusty companion through the trials of childhood, even when my teenage years introduced boys, cars, and other distractions. Snoopy still hung around, more like a decorative pillow than a playmate. When I headed off to college, he took a vacation in the closet, but when my first child arrived, he made his grand return to the nursery, keeping watch. Now, thirty years later, he’s back in my apartment after spending time guarding the top bunk at the summer cabin.
Back in 1972, I was infatuated with Snoopy. I added him to every birthday and Christmas list, eagerly awaited the daily and Sunday Peanuts comic strips, and devoured the paperback collections my brother snagged from Scholastic. I loved my dolls, but Snoopy was something special—he was Joe Cool, after all! Fluffy and soft with a black leather collar, I quickly crafted some outfits for him. Getting the tail hole right was a challenge when you’re nine and sewing by hand! Eventually, I was lucky enough to receive an official Snoopy tennis outfit and a denim jacket from the Peanuts store at the ice rink in Santa Rosa, California, where the legendary Charles Schulz could often be seen.
As the years passed, Snoopy got a bit dingy. His neck seam split a few times, leading to some DIY repairs because the old washing machine was a beast—he lost his head more than once. Now, he’s not the bright white he used to be; he’s a bit gray and pilled. But his smile? That’s still the same, and his winking eyes still radiate warmth, carrying the scent of comfort and love.
Snoopy has a unique gift that not many could match. Whenever I was feeling down—be it at 10 or 20 or even now—his faded fur was always there to soak up my tears. He loved me unconditionally. By fourth grade, I could draw him well (I still can!). It’s a simple loop from ear to neck, but the real Snoopy had that soft, three-dimensional face, the perfect fit for my cheek, and my arms could wrap around him just right while I cried until my tears dried up. Snoopy never judged.
Last week, I brought Snoopy home from the cabin and placed him on the sofa, where I could easily see his familiar smile and crooked head. This afternoon, as I lounged on the couch with a book, I felt him next to my shoulder. The sight of his face opened a floodgate of memories—both joyful and bittersweet. I reached for him, pressing my face against his, and we fit perfectly together, like two puzzle pieces. It reminded me of how many times I had cried into his comforting embrace.
To borrow a line from The Velveteen Rabbit, Snoopy is real. He’s not just a toy; he’s a treasure trove of memories, a refuge, and a gentle reminder of a steadfast love from the past. As long as his stitched smile and watchful eyes are with me, I know I’ll be okay.
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In summary, my stuffed Snoopy symbolizes comfort, a cherished companion through the ups and downs of life, ensuring that I’m never alone. He’s a reminder that love and memories endure, no matter how much time has passed.