Why I Held Onto My Stuffed Snoopy

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As I was cleaning out our summer cabin before the renters moved in, I found myself chuckling at the thought of how our CPA teased us about keeping it empty. “What are you, the Rockefellers?” he joked. “Just rent it out!” So, I packed up all the summer gear—beach towels, sand shoes, bunk beds in the guest room, and shelves brimming with puzzles and toys. Instead of sending everything away, I loaded up my car and brought it all back to my city apartment, where it now creates a nice little mountain in my living room.

I’m sifting through all this stuff, deciding what to keep—dominoes, poker chips, and mancala? Absolutely! Random games with missing pieces? Into the recycling bin they go. Worn-out towels and sheets? Off to the pet shelter. Duplicates of beloved books? Straight to the library.

But there’s one item that I can’t quite part with. My stuffed Snoopy, a cherished toy from when I was in third grade, has always held a special place in my heart. For years, he was the centerpiece of my bed (complete with Snoopy bedsheets), until I grew up and got distracted by boys and cars. Even then, Snoopy stayed as a decorative piece, but I didn’t play with him anymore. He remained in my closet during college but made a comeback when I had my first baby, watching over the nursery. Three decades later, he’s back, safeguarding the top bunk at the summer cabin and now resting on my couch.

I had been yearning for a Snoopy back in 1972. I’d add “Snoopy” to every birthday and Christmas list, eagerly read the daily Peanuts comic strip, and pored over the paperback collections my brother got from Scholastic. I adored my dolls, but Snoopy was something else—he was Joe Cool. Fluffy and soft, he even had a black leather collar. I quickly crafted some outfits for him, learning the trick of sewing a hole for his tail as a nine-year-old. Eventually, I received a proper Snoopy tennis outfit and a cute jean jacket from the Peanuts store at the ice rink owned by Charles Schulz, who was a local legend.

The longer I kept him, the more worn he became. There were times his neck seam split, necessitating some stitching. He wasn’t safe for the washing machine, especially the old kind we had; he lost his head a couple of times in there. So, Snoopy isn’t the pristine white he once was. Now, he’s a bit gray and pilled, but his smile remains unchanged, and his winking eyes still look back at me with love and comfort.

The unique thing about Snoopy is that he could always soak up my tears with his worn fur. He offered me unconditional love. By fourth grade, I was able to draw Snoopy (and I can still do it!). It’s a simple line from his ear to his neck, looping around his face, but the real Snoopy had a softer, three-dimensional face that fit perfectly against mine. I would cry into his fur until I felt better, always knowing he wouldn’t judge me.

Last week, I brought Snoopy home and set him on the sofa, where I can see his smiling face every day. This afternoon, as I rested on the sofa with a book, I noticed Snoopy next to me. His face brought back a wave of memories—both joyful and bittersweet. I reached for him, resting my face against his, and we fit together like puzzle pieces. I recalled all the times I’d cried into his fur.

To borrow a sentiment from The Velveteen Rabbit, Snoopy is real. He’s more than a toy; he’s a treasure chest of memories, a safe space, and a comforting hug from the past. As long as his stitched-on smile and watchful eyes are nearby, I feel secure. Everything will be okay.

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In summary, holding onto my stuffed Snoopy has been a journey through nostalgia and comfort. He symbolizes unconditional love and the memories of my childhood, reminding me that no matter what changes in life, some treasures are worth keeping close.