You just don't fuck with a dude's stuffed animal

Ya'll muthafuckas need to bow down.

 

I still have the teddy bear I was given at birth. There's a photo of me swaddled in the hospital next to him and a golliwog (back in the days when they were acceptable... apparently).

Teddy is a Rupert Bear, for anyone who knows the English character. He still has his scarf, but I never remember him having clothes. Over the years, the patches on his feet and paws have been replaced. His internal voicebox has died. An eye has been replaced. Now his fabric is starting to disintegrate. So he sits in my bookshelf in my study where he's safe.

The other thing I had as a child was a sheepskin that I would take everywhere and sleep on. I had a blanket too, but the sheepskin was more my favourite. That was, until I was 5 and the family did a caravan trip circumnavigating Australia. Dad decided my sheepskin would be comfortable to sit on for the drive. I cried like the little kid I was at having it taken away. Six months and many thousands of kilometres later he attempted to give it back to me. By then, one look told me I didn't want it. That's one way to divest your children from material attachment... and emotional too.

 

I had a plush Pink Panther that I took everywhere. I'm pretty sure it's packed up somewhere inside my father's house, I should go check for shits and giggles...

 

I had this stuffed beagle thing that was about as big as me when I was 3 or so. I remember it had these clear plastic eyes instead of buttons or whatever. I abused the hell out of that thing. I used to go Link on it regularly, but it held together fine. Never gave it a name or anything. I could distinguish fiction from reality at a young age, unlike you fagglerocks.

I imagine it's still in my house somewhere.

 

I used to have a lot of stuffed toys as a very young kid - I had an awesome Pink Panther (you know you want that...) and a Noddy doll with was stuffed in the middle but with a plastic head (does that count?). When I contracted asthma, we had to get rid of all of them since stuffed animals set off asthma. They now make hypoallergenic toys, but back then in 1984/1985, they didn't. The only "toy" I could take to bed after that was my inhaler. Fun times.

Maybe there's something there about attachment issues or something (i.e. I don't like being attached to anything or anyone).

 

When I was little I had a Wrinkles Dog which I named "Wrinkles", which many of you probably don't remember (unless they brought them back at some point). Made in Canada by Ganz, it was a stuffed dog that looked like a cross between a Shar-Pei and a Bloodhound, and it was a puppet so you can make it talk of "lick" people (as well as fellate itself, which guys often did witht them).

Mine looked just like the one on the left:

 

I remember that I had stuffed animals, but I don't remember any of them clearly. The only reason I really remember having them in the first place is because I remember accidentally setting one on fire while I was playing with a lighter after bedtime when I was 5.

 

Is it fucked up that I never had any "comfort" object as a small child? No blanket, stuffed animal, toy that I slept with or defended against ne'er-do-wells. I don't think I was an abnormal child by any stretch, had two great parents, peer group, all off that, but people seem to think it's weird NOT to have such an object in ones past. Even my younger sister had a blanket she took everywhere with her until she was like 9 or something, so it's not like my parents were against it. Huh.

 

When I was very small, I had a brown bear named Pumbly. No idea where I got that name. Anyway, he was my favorite bear, since he was my size and I could hold his paw and drag him around with me.

When I was around five, my brother and sister convinced me he wasn't mine, but actually belonged to my sister. They took him into protective custody, putting Pumbly in the most off-limits place in the house: my brother's room. I cried, and every day I would wait until my brother left and then peek into his room and stare at the bear that was my best friend but didn't belong to me. I tried to replace him with other toys, but nothing was really the same as holding his paw.

One day, about two years later, while we were all playing in the bonus room, my brother finally brought my bear out of his room. My sister and he had decided it was time to give Pumbly an operation. By this time, I had resigned myself to the fact that he wasn't mine anymore, so I just looked on glumly while they got some scissors and discussed what sort of operation he should have.

At that point, my mother walked in on us. She asked my siblings what the hell they thought they were doing to my bear. My ears perked up. My...bear? My bear?

Jubilation. I snatched Pumbly from them while they tried to stammer out excuses, then whisked him away to my room, where he got the place of honor in the middle of the bed.

My mom later told me that he was the bear that had been there at my birth. He went on to be insanely loved, to the point that he lost his nose and needed his neck restitched a few times due to excessive hugging. I still love that bear. He's the only stuffed animal who has never been packed away, despite many, many moves.

 

He looked like this, but without the Super Grover emblem. I think I need to find him.

 

I had and still have a stuffed Bulldog from Ty (the beanie baby company) named Churchill (http://beta.ioffer.com/i/rare-ty-classic-plush-bulldog-churchill-puppy-dog-mint-208455306). He was originally fluffy and springy and wonderful, but after years of being clutched in my arms all night long, he'd grown a bit flat and also had a hole in his back where the stuffing was coming out.

I'm actually off work and home for a week, and when I got home on Saturday, my grandmother had sewn his hole shut and added a bit more stuffing. It's sort of awesome, and I'm not ashamed to say he's currently sitting next to me in my bed. I love being home.

 

My 1987 sky blue Diamondback Cool Streak bmx bike with mag wheels. I loved that bike, and possessing it made me the coolest kid in the neighborhood because a Diamondback was pretty high up in the heirarchy of bike brand coolness (which to my recollection went something like Huffy=>Schwin=>[brands I forget]=>Diamondback=>Haro). I didn't forget my previous bike though, and would actually use my other bike for testing out jumps because heaven forbid I wipe out on my diamondback and put a scratch on it.

I only had it for about a year before it was stolen, unfortunately. I'm pretty sure my childhood died on that day.

 

I never did either. I was way more interested in my Transformers and what not than any stuffed animal.

 

The family computer was mine. It never ignored me or arbitrarily forbid me from doing things like running outside.

[I spent more time playing Captain Comic and Quest for Glory than I ever did with a bear, though I did briefly have a blue bear I forget the name of]

 

I had a blanket that my grandmother gave me when I was born. It has been reduced to a rope with a bunch of knots in it to keep it together. One of my favorite past times was putting it a corner in my nose while I sucked my index fingers. Not sure what I was doing on that one, but it would get pretty snotty I hear. Now it's in a bag in my parent's basement. The last time I've seen it was when they pulled it out at my HS graduation 6 years ago.

We had a couch in our basement that was just for holding stuffed animals. It was full, but I was never really attached to any of them. I have no idea where they even came from. Probably relics from my older brothers' childhoods.

 

Like Chater I had a blanket that was permanently attached to my arm when I was younger. Apparently on my 8th birthday I walked into mum and gave it up and said Iw as too big for it now.

Also had a Winnie the Pooh toy that went everywhere and even got lost in an airport and somehow was returned to me. My sister hijcaked that toy then my brother after her and it's still floating around somewhat worse for wear.

 

When I was younger, I had a stuffed bear that was named Barn. I carried that thing around everywhere, slept with it, etc. for a while. Eventually I stopped taking it with me everywhere we went, but still slept with him. Around this time, my family and I went to Germany on spring break to visit my cousins, who were living there for a couple of years. Naturally, Barn came with me. My uncle rented a van to drive all of us around and take us on a tour of Germany and Austria, and we spent a few nights in small inns. After one of these inn stays in Austria, we left and went back to my cousins' house in Germany. It was about this time that I realized that I couldn't find Barn. My mom looked crushed and just told me, "I think you left him in the bed in Austria."

Obviously I was devastated, but my uncle, being the awesome guy that he is, got on the phone and looked up the tiny inn that we stayed in. He talked to the man who owned the place, in not exactly perfect German, and found out that yes, they had found my stuffed bear while his wife was cleaning the rooms. The Austrian man agreed to mail Barn all the way back to my house in the United States.

Fast forward a few days/weeks after we get home from Germany, and a package arrives with all kinds of markings on it. I knew, even at my young age, EXACTLY what it was. My mom says it was the second happiest look she's ever seen on my face (the first happiest would not happen until 9th grade, when I lost an even more precious object and had it returned, but that's another story). Looking back on it, that old Austrian man did a serious good deed, and I wish I could thank him now for it.

I just went and looked at Barn, upstairs in my room. He's in rough shape- matted fur, stitched together in a few places, scratched eyes, etc., but that bear still means a ton to me.

 

I was pretty sick as a child, spending a fair amount of time in and out of hospital getting various types of surgery. At one stage I had to learn to walk again. At the beginning of this time, I was presented with a stuffed dog, who I named 'Woofy', who remained with me during my entire time there.

After a while 'Woofy' became pretty battered and bruised up. One of his ears had almost fallen off, and his bellybutton (still don't know why he had one in the first place' was in similar state. His fur was also significantly disculoured.

Knowing what I had gone through with 'Woofy' my mum took him to a Doll's Hospital, and after a week or so he came back, completely 'new'. As in he looked a little different, but new enough for it not to matter.

I could never bring myself to throw him out while I was growing up. I don't think I ever could. Not that lying in the cupboard is much better