As I tidy up our summer cabin in preparation for incoming renters, I’m reminded of the treasures I’ve gathered over the years. Our accountant teased us about the cabin being empty for so long, jokingly asking if we were wealthy elites. “Just rent it out!” he suggested. Thus, I found myself sorting through an array of summer items—beach towels, flip-flops, guest room bunk beds, and shelves brimming with games and toys. Everything needs to find a new home.
By “everything,” I mean I’m loading my car with these items to bring back to my city apartment, where they now create a small mountain in my living room. I’m diligently deciding what to keep—do I want to hold onto the dominoes, poker chips, and mancala? Absolutely. But the random games missing pieces? Straight to the recycling bin. Old towels and sheets? Off to the pet shelter. Duplicates of cherished books? They’ll go to the library.
Yet, there’s one item that I treated with more care than the rest. My stuffed Snoopy, a cherished companion since my third-grade days, was once the centerpiece of my bed (complete with Snoopy bedsheets). He remained there through my teenage years, transitioning from a beloved toy to a decorative accent. When I went to college, he stayed behind in the closet. But when my first child was born, Snoopy re-emerged to watch over the nursery. Now, three decades later, he’s back in my apartment after keeping watch over the top bunk at the summer cabin.
In 1972, I craved a Snoopy. My heart yearned for him as I added “Snoopy” to every birthday and Christmas list. The daily Peanuts comic strip captivated me, and I poured over the paperback collections my brother brought home from Scholastic. While I loved my dolls, Snoopy exuded a coolness that was irresistible—he was Joe Cool, after all. He was fluffy and soft, dressed in a black leather collar (the mark of a dog), but I quickly made him clothes. Sewing the tail hole was a challenge for a 9-year-old, but I persevered. Eventually, I received an official Snoopy tennis outfit and a jean jacket from the Peanuts store in Santa Rosa, California, where Charles Schulz himself could often be seen.
With time, Snoopy became less pristine. His fur dulled, and I had to repair his neck seam more than once. Washing machines were too rough, and he lost his head on several occasions. Now, he may not be the bright white he once was, but his smile remains unchanged, and his eyes still glimmer with warmth. He carries the scent of comfort and love.
What Snoopy provided was unique—he absorbed my tears with his worn, pilled fur and offered unconditional love. By fourth grade, I could draw him well (and I can still do it). A simple line from his ear to neck, a black ear filled in, and the collar drawn on—nothing compared to the softness of the real Snoopy whose form I could cradle, crying until my tears dried. He never judged.
Last week, I retrieved Snoopy from the cabin and placed him on the sofa, where his familiar smile greeted me. This afternoon, as I relaxed on the couch with a book, I noticed Snoopy nestled next to me. Gazing at his face sparked a wave of memories—joyful and bittersweet. I reached out, pressed my face against his, and we fit together perfectly, like two pieces of a puzzle. I recalled all the times I cried into his fur.
To borrow a thought from The Velveteen Rabbit, Snoopy transcends being just a toy. He embodies a repository of memories, a safe haven, and a gentle embrace from my past, representing an unwavering love that endures. As long as his stitched smile and watchful eyes remain, I know I’m safe. I’ll be just fine.
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In summary, my stuffed Snoopy represents not just a nostalgic piece of my childhood but also a comforting presence in my life. He has journeyed with me through various life stages, embodying love and safety. In a world that often feels overwhelming, it’s the small, meaningful connections—like the one I have with Snoopy—that remind us of our resilience.