Everyone has that special something from their childhood that when they glance at it they are fondly reminded about the good old days and easier, simpler times. My special something rest right next to me on my bed. Its not a baby blanket tattered and torn, or a teddy bear that once fought away the evil monsters under my bed, no its my stuffed animal, Foxy. Foxy was cleverly names because it is in fact a fox, and for a preschooler that was a pretty good name to come up with.
I remember the day I got him. It was my birthday party and my best friend Nathaniel gave him to me. The box which he sat in was plain and simple, white with a red ribbon on top. But the outside greatly contrasted with what rested inside. The moment I opened the box I couldn’t take my eyes of the fiery red tint of his fur, the white tuff at the tip of his tail or the paws that looked like they were dipped in chocolate. He had solid black bead eyes but they glimmered and shined, three whiskers tickled each side of his face and the tip of his long nose.
I grasped him out of the box and held onto him tightly as if he would come to life and run away. From then on he was always at my side. We went on countless adventures, weather we just went for a walk in my back yard or on a safari in Africa. Some of my guy friends would laugh at me for carrying around a stuffed animal, and I would just stick out my tong with a preschooler’s enthusiasm; they just didn’t understand. Foxy was there for me to keep me safe from the slimy, horned, scaly monsters that scratched and roared under my bed at night. He protected me from the burglars scratching at my window screaming to get in, not once did Foxy let anyone hurt me.
The most important time Foxy was there for me was during my Grandmothers death. She was perfectly fine one day; in fact I had just slept over at her house. But the next day she had a heart attack; my parents tired to explain it to me but all I understood was she was sick and in the hospital. No sooner had they told me this news did they sit me back down to tell me she had died. I cried and cried on my mother and fathers shoulders, sobbing as they rocked me back and forth while my salty tears hit their shirts.
The moment they let go I ran to my room, Foxy would make it better, he always did. So I clutched on to him and talked to him as if he was real. “Let’s go on an adventure.” I repeated over and over again, but every time I opened my eyes I was not at a beach, on a safari, climbing a mountain, or surfing in space. I tried over and over but every time I was still on my floor in my room.
Finally I cried again and this time didn’t stop, but Foxy was still there for me, comforting, protecting me. He didn’t try to distract or tell me he was sorry, he didn’t tell me his own story of sorrow or tell me he knew what I was going through, no Foxy just stayed in my arms as I cried, being the prefect protector that he was.
Foxy still has a special spot on my bed even to this day. He sits and stares as I come and go. I have forgotten many of our adventures because, what child really remembers it all. He no longer chases away the monsters or buglers, and we no longer go on adventures, but I know when I need a protector from the emotional world, Foxy will be there on top of my bed, waiting for me.