Good Old Mr. Pink

Pink Puppy in 2010

     My special friend and bedtime toy since 1955, Pink Puppy was named for his once lovely shade of terry cloth skin.  Given to me by Santa on my first Christmas, he became my confidant before I could speak in sentences.  Mother says he was surely chosen by my Dad, who was inclined toward extravagant purchases.

Pink and me with other unimportant presents, Christmas 1955

     In this photo of my first Christmas (obviously I was then an only child), the person who set up the shoot did not understand Pink's importance as he didn't make it to the top tier of my early-model exer-saucer.          

     Just recently Pink came down from the attic in a box of my boys’ special stuffed animals.  One son decided the collection could be culled but Pink was not a candidate. 

Pink and me with some of the lesser toys, 1955

     I had a rush of emotion when I saw Pink lying in the heap at the bottom of the box.  He made me smile and the sight of him brought back feelings of comfort and friendship, times of confiding and questioning and a lot of family memories. I rescued him from the box and put him safely on my bed, which is where he is now. 

With the spoils, 1958.  Pink is in the cradle.

     With Pink's help, my eating and dressing habits improved over the years and eventually I had to share the beaters filled with delicious seven-minute icing with my little brother and sister.  But for my third birthday, Pink and I had the spoils to ourselves.

     After my best buddy spent nearly 40 years in various storage boxes, it amazes me that I had such a strong reaction to seeing him again.  Memories fast forwarded from the depths of my brain and I recalled that for many years of my life he was my best friend and slept right beside me.

     His fragile body has sprung more than one leak and his stuffing erupted years ago. Mother patched him, eventually replacing his stuffing with wadded up old stockings.  That worked fine although I was mad and embarrassed for Pink when I found out - being stuffed with used nylons is not exactly a classy fix.  His outsides were still the same and I am sure I spent some time comforting him for a while after the operation.

Pink and me, trying to get a girl out of my chair.

     I like the way he looks so peaceful with his sewn-shut eyes, his head cocked and his floppy ears coming down around the side of his face.  With that natural bend in his body, he fit right inside my arms at bedtime.

     I used to put him up to my face and talk to him and then I would kiss him.  He is missing more of the terry part of his cloth body in that spot.  In fact, he’s rather thin-skinned around his face.  I am sure I gave him a lot of love.

     How is it that at age 55 I get great comfort from seeing him and feel close to this little pink dilapidated dog?   I feel a great deal of security knowing an old pal is still around.  I tested him the other night by having a big old cry.  Sure enough, he can still keep a secret.

     He'll probably go back in the box in a week or two, after I have enjoyed reuniting for a little while longer.