I used to sleep with him every night. He was warm, approachable, soft to the touch. He'd lie across my bed and gaze into my eyes with a longing usually reserved for a platter of chocolate chip cookies after dinner. He was my confidante, my companion, my second self. He was... Boopsie, my stuffed animal.
Fastened with a red bow and soft, black fur, Boopsie was like the dog I never had. He never pissed on my bedroom carpet, shit in the car, ate all my leftover Halloween candy or barked at 2 a.m. outside my door. No, Boopsie was the epitome of a mild-mannered, cuddly and devoted canine friend. Plus, he never shed. What could be better than that?
Unlike most people's stuffed animals, Boopsie didn't enter my life at the cusp of my second, fifth or even 10th birthday. Nahhh. Boopsie took his sweet, sweet time. He shuffled right in at the age when it became admittedly pathetic for me to ever dote on a stuffed animal: when I turned 15 years old. Ohhh, yeah. And who said parents don't give good gifts?
The first year of his arrival was like any other newlywed period, replete with warm, fuzzy (literally), can't-get-enough-of-you feelings. I'd arrive home from school, drop my bookbag on the floor and find him sitting on my bed, waiting for me. I'd rush into his arms/paws/one of four cotton-filled limbs and kiss him on the head. Then, I'd go online, have dinner and browse the Internet while he'd sit there and watch, completely content.
Boopsie understood that I was busy and had other obligations. He didn't mind that he rarely left my bedroom, didn't have tastebuds and would never be able to drink out of the toilet. All he knew was that a relationship like ours was rare and he loved me, wholly and completely. Our lives together were magical until... (dun, dun, dunnnn) Kirby entered the picture.
Kirby is my real dog—the family dog. In my sophomore year of high school, my parents adopted him from a shelter, brought him to our house and officially deemed him ""Kirby Gleicher.""
Unlike Boopsie, Kirby is of the warm-blooded, mammal variety. He salivates all over the floor before dinner, shits on the dining room carpet and gnaws on the chairs when we leave the house. Nonetheless, he is the golden child of the family, eliciting ""awws"" and squeezes from house visitors and strangers on the street.
From my sophomore year of high school to graduation, Kirby didn't pose much of a threat to Boopsie.
While Boopsie lounged on my bed and stared out the window, Kirby was outside hunting deer and eating his own crap. Their lives were as separate from each other as January and July.
When I came to UW-Madison as a freshman and then as a sophomore, Boopsie came too, and Kirby, of course, stayed behind. Boopsie watched as I fought tirelessly with my first roommate and devoured slices of late-night pizza with friends. He was even by my side when I craved my mom's macaroni and cheese and a flight home. Just like our newlywed period, he was there when I needed him most.
It wasn't until the summer of my sophomore year that Kirby became a bonafide threat. Upon arriving back home with Boopsie, I found Kirby crying and whining with anguish over our months spent apart. When I'd go outside for a swim in our lake, he'd come too, and when I'd walk into the kitchen for a cookie, or five, he'd join.
Suddenly, Kirby got jealous.
He watched as I snuggled up to Boopsie every night in bed and how I needed him so much I brought him with me to a college hundreds of miles away from home.
On a scorching Saturday in August, just days before I left for my junior year at Madison, I walked into my bedroom and realized Boopsie had disappeared. I searched the house and desperately and breathlessly asked my mom, sister, and dad, ""WHERE IS HE?!""
I sat on my bed and stared out the window at the lake with the emptiness of a grieving widow. For the first time, I sat completely alone.
Then, I noticed something red outside moving in the grass. Rushing outside, I ran over to it. There sat Kirby—humping Boopsie.
""What are you doing?!?!"" I yelled to Kirby. ""What do you think he is?! A pillow?!""
I grabbed Boopsie from Kirby and looked him over; cotton stuck out from behind his ears, dirt filled the nostrils of his plastic nose and saliva coated his red ribbon.
Kirby grabbed Boopsie back from me and licked his stuffed tail, just like a steak bone.
""You're such a piece of crap!"" I yelled back at him and stormed into the house, enraged and empty-handed.
That summer, I realized the hard way that it was time to let go. Days later, I packed for junior year and left Boopsie behind—with Kirby. It was time to hand him down. Human or not, I guess everybody needs a snuggle buddy.
Do you have a stuffed animal you just can't live without? Or a horny-ass dog that took yours away? Misery loves company. Let me know at gleicher@wisc.edu!
