For What it's Worth

This Narrative Essay examines the unique relationships we have with childhood keepsakes, and how these relationships change overtime. This essay encourages readers to value and protect them.

When I was born�"practically as I was born�"I received my very first possession: a fluffy little stuffed dog, that I aptly named Fuzzy. Fuzzy was a sort of bright khaki color, with small curls of soft fur. His eyes were brilliantly brown and large, flawlessly shiny like his black plastic nose. His tail was long and straight, his ears abnormally large leading to some confusion amongst friends and family as to whether Fuzzy is a dog or a rabbit. He’s a dog.

As an infant and a toddler, Fuzzy and I were inseparable. Before I could speak, my parents would knowingly ask me where Fuzzy was. With a grin, I would hold my friend tight in two hands and raise him in the air like Simba. Fuzzy went with me to the playground, to school, to dinner, to my grandparents’ house, and to bed. I was never the sort of kid who couldn’t sleep without my stuffed animal, but if I could help it, Fuzzy slept where I slept. I made backstories for Fuzzy and even celebrated his birthday�"which was easy, since it was my birthday, too�"by borrowing my sister’s Easy Bake Oven and making him a yellow sponge cake that tasted like wax and chemicals; I don’t think he minded too much. This phase ended quickly however, since I had to eat everything I made, which was not exactly pleasant. I think perhaps my parents expected Fuzzy to phase out, too, like the Easy Bake Oven, Hot Wheels, Thomas the Tank Engine, or my pacifier.

And in a sense, I suppose he did. Around nine or ten, I began to treat Fuzzy less as a friend and more as an outlet, throwing him in the air and letting him drop to the floor or slinging him around by his tail and letting him go against walls. My parents would often say, “You’re going to beat that poor thing to death if you treat it like that,” to which I would reply, “So? I don’t even like him anymore.” Fuzzy was relegated to the dust underneath my bed. This was no accident. While part of me had decided that it was uncool to tote around a stuffed animal of questionable genus and species, part of me still wanted to cling to Fuzzy, and keep him as close as possible while still keeping some distance. Every now and again, I would lift him up, dust him off, and hold him for a bit, always making certain to put him back before my parents could see.

As I packed for college a couple of years ago, I began with the essentials. For most people that means clothing, for some maybe toiletries, others perhaps bedding or room decorations or school supplies. For me, it meant finding Fuzzy, and tucking him away in a backpack; with an opening in the zipper so he could breathe, of course. Then I packed my clothing, then my toiletries, then my bedding and decorations and supplies. So when my mother came up to check on my progress and jokingly asked, “So, did you pack up Fuzzy?” I was able to scoop him out of the backpack and proudly raise my friend in the air like Simba; a very floppy Simba.

 I picked Fuzzy up by the greasy scruff of his rather floppy neck, and his chin comes to rest on the backs of my fingers. My roommate asked, “What the Hell is that?”

Suddenly defensive, I explained, “It’s a stuffed dog. His name is Fuzzy. I got him when I was born, so he’s as old as I am.”

Unimpressed, my roommate muttered, “He looks more like a rabbit.”

“Dog. He’s a dog,” I said.

“Why is it so limp?” my roommate asked.

“He’s not,” I said, “I mean, he’s 21. He looks good for 21, I think.”

Admittedly, Fuzzy’s foam head looks abnormally large in comparison to his body, which has now lost a good 65 percent of its fuzz, leading to some wounding irony in regards to his name. My roommate asked, “Where’s his nose?”

Annoyed, I responded, “I don’t know. It fell off. A long time ago.”

Yes, Fuzzy is missing his nose, now. He’s lost it three times, actually, due to the torment 9-year-old me put him through; I don’t tell my roommate that. My father replaced it twice, then decided it wasn’t worth it and threw it away, which was probably a good idea. His two large eyes have a few dents and chips, too, and don’t shine quite as bright as they used to do.

With a shrug and a dismissive spin in his desk chair, my roommate concludes, “Well, he looks gross.”

His fur is matted and a little greasy. Some patches of fur have dislodged themselves altogether, revealing the white mesh underneath. The top of Fuzzy’s head, however, is the key: Knotted into this half-dollar-sized circle of fur are the scents of my infancy. I can still smell traces of formula, faint vestiges of baby oil, and a hint of something sweet like syrup or honey. All of these scents are accompanied by an overwhelming sense of tranquility and safety, feelings only I can feel, only I can understand. These feelings are why I have dusted my friend off for good.