I grew up in a Brooklyn railroad flat. All the rooms were lined up. My parent’s bedroom was at one end and there was a small room off it that was my father’s study. I was five before I even knew that room existed. There was a box in the room that had a bunch of old toys and among them was a small, hard, stuffed dog with short fuzzy hair and a red felt tongue. I named it “Fuzzy-Wuzzy” and took it to bed most nights. It is the only stuffed toy I remember from my early childhood. Every day when my mother made the beds she put Fuzzy-Wuzzy back in the box and every night I snuck into the dark scary room (I couldn’t reach the lights.) and reclaimed my dog. When I was eight or nine years old, my parents did a major cleanup and decided no one needed the old toys so they gave them to the fire department toy drive. I was so upset that they eventually bought me a stuffed panda that I still have.
The summer I turned twelve, my parents bought a house and we moved to Queens. The previous owners left some books and toys behind. I found my dog in the cellar playroom. It was a replica of Fuzzy-Wuzzy but about twice as large. Clearly it had grown up. I kept the grownup dog with my panda for many years.
In 1989 when my kids were six and eight their school had an evening Halloween party and my husband took them to the party and went dressed as Obelix. He wanted my dog to go with him as Idefix. I pleaded with him not to take it but he was adamant and insulted that I wouldn’t trust him to look after it. That was the last time I saw my dog.
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